Wishing You Weren't Here
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: Merran Amell loves the Circle and being a mage; but she's not just another magic-imbued individual. She's been tainted from birth and she 'talks' to the Archdemon. But now she's a Grey Warden and she's supposed to defeat it...? **Chapter 27 Revised**
1. Maleficars and Meatballs

A/N: This story came about from a short fanfiction about a pint-sized, quirky mage who foolishly gave a dance lesson to a Qunari; the sort of individual you wouldn't catch jigging about like a savage with a ferret shoved down their pants. The drabble seemed to work and Merran simply wouldn't let me rest until I'd told her story…and I did, right to the end and then I came back and re-read it.

I cringed.

Far be it for me to compare myself to directors of sci-fi epics, I've always wanted to go back and revise Merran's story; fix some formatting, grammar, spelling and pacing oopsies that really didn't sit very well with me. The spirit of the story hasn't changed. Merran is still Merran and this is still _her _story as she wanted it to be told…

Bioware owns Merran's world. She's just taking it out for a quick stroll in the forest.

-oo-

**Chapter 1 - Maleficars and Meatballs**

"I'm going to faint…I'm going to faint…do something, quick!"

Merran Amell clapped one arm over her head; the other arm thrust at her table-mate; who looked at the hand being proffered with long-suffering exasperation. As a favour to a friend he squinted at the indicated finger intently, searching for the implied injury. There was the tiniest nick; the skin barely broken. There wasn't even any blood that he could see…_Could she not even make an effort to make it look convincing_, Jowan thought in disgust; squeeze some blood out perhaps? A paper-cut would have been _embarrassed_ to be associated with the scratch on her finger…

A single dark eyebrow rose on Jowan's pale forehead. "What am I supposed to do about it?" he asked; irritation making his voice sound more high-pitched than usual.

"Heal me!" Merran warbled weakly. "Oh…Maker, the blood loss…I'm dying…dizzy…my life. Flashing. Before. My. Eyes…"

"Can you not for once take this seriously?" Jowan scolded, turning back to the task at hand. He glanced back once, warily. Her complexion was rather green and she was swaying on the spot, but this was _Amell. _She always looked a bit…odd and it paid to take anything she said, claimed or did with several _oceans_ of salt.

He returned to his deathroot with a roll of his eyes. Barely a moment later there was a soft sigh and his table-mate slumped to the floor. Jowan completed shredding his pile of deathroot before prodding the heap of her motionless body with the toe of his boot. She _actually _was unconscious…

Shrugging, he muttered, "Pathetic…" under his breath before scooping the deathroot into the glass container on the bench. _Stew gently over a low flame…_his potion-making notes read…and so he did.

A rhythmic tapping announced Senior Enchanter Leorah on her rounds of the apprentices' tables. She barely startled when she came upon Merran and Jowan, sparing a dispassionate, almost bored look at the prone apprentice, appearing to be more interested in the male apprentice's work with the difficult herb.

She smiled serenely, giving the bubbling deathroot an approving nod. "Oh, well done Jowan. That's coming along very nicely."

"Thank you Senior Leorah…" Jowan grinned, pleased at himself.

Stepping lightly over Apprentice Amell's unconscious body, the Senior Enchanter continued her circuit of the room.

-oo-

"Aw…look at it this way: at least I'd make a _terrible_ Blood Mage, ah-ha-ha-ha!"

First Enchanter Irving rested his bearded chin in one hand, a gnarled finger tapping at his cheekbone while the young apprentice sitting before him _laughed._ A single thought kept butting the inside of his skull…the same one that inevitably raised its ugly, insistent head whenever _this _particular apprentice was in his vicinity. It was a desire-demon of a thought that wrapped enticingly around his mind with promises of peace and the ability to run a well-ordered, uneventful Tower…

_Tranquil…make her Tranquil…and tranquility will once more return to your Tower_…

The less persuadable, demon-resistant part of him however, reminded him turning Merran Amell Tranquil would be a _waste _of what was an incredible talent for magic as the girl, for all her troublesome ways had potential; a _lot _of potential. Her magic had come to her at an unusually young age and she had an uncanny ability to absorb lessons by simply being in the same room as other, more hardworking apprentices. Her magic was powerful; frighteningly so. Unfortunately for Merran's fellow students and the other, less important denizens of the Tower, fear was no reason to remove her connection to the Fade.

Peering down the length of his rather long nose, Irving mustered his best First Enchanter's voice. "Young woman," he reminded her sternly, "blood magic is _not_ a topic for amusement. Why, if a Templar heard you saying such a thing…"

He left the threat hanging in the air, along with a warning finger, his brows sinking on his forehead as he realised she wasn't actually listening to him.

Her attention – most unfortunately – was arrested by a black leather-bound tome on his desk. She gasped, turning wide brown eyes up at him. "First Enchanter Irving…" she waggled – _actually waggled _– a finger at him, "are _you_ a Blood mage?"

"_What_?" Caught off his guard, the word exploded unexpectedly from him.

Amell's bottom lip turned down in an unhappy pout, for all appearances hurt at the harsh tone of his voice. She pointed to the book that caused the question. lrving pursed his lips, quite aware that this was _his _fault. The book lay on _his _desk, in _his _office and the Fates had dictated that of all the clutter, oddments, missives and confiscated items piled upon his work table, it had been _this _particular item that had caught her attention.

It had been a gift from the Knight Commander; a joke shared between two highly competitive, but idealistically-opposed colleagues.

The ominously heavy book in large, flamboyant lettering read '_Blood Magic: The Forbidden School'_.

Overcome by a sudden streak of rebellion, Irving eyed the young apprentice beadily. "Yes," he replied in a voice devoid of expression. "My secret identity has been revealed. I am indeed a Blood Mage and tonight at midnight I shall wreak a frenzy upon this Tower to slay all in their sleep." _Starting with the apprentice floor_...

"Golly!" Merran exclaimed, brown eyes shining in admiration. "That would be just brilliant!"

"Yes, I'm sure _you_ of all people would think so," Irving's mouth twisted resentfully.

"Of course, I know you're just pulling my leg," Merran added in a knowledgeable voice. "Greagoir's got a _pretty_ good nose for Maleficars and Blood Mages." She gave a snort of amusement. "Huh, if you were a Blood Mage, I'd be standing here talking to a headless corpse."

"That's _Knight Commander_ to you, apprentice," Irving reminded her sternly.

He rose from his desk. Keeping the barrier of wood and clutter between himself and Amell, Irving paced the threadbare rug behind his lumpy, high-backed chair. One would think that an inmate of such long residence at the Tower of Magi would show signs of her time here. It had been…nearly seventeen years. Seventeen years of exposure to other mages and all the rules, regulations and unspoken understandings that experience came with. Merran Amell was _not_ the very model of a modern mage apprenticing.

No, she was very much something else…and what that 'something' was; he had as yet to find out.

She was…if pressed to provide a description _now…_a contradiction of herself. Meek, never outspoken, always courteous, neat, precise, _obedient…_she was also rebellious, cynical, argumentative, sloppy and defiant. She could recite the Chant of Light _backwards _in four different languages. Her spellcasting was superb, faultless. Her ability to absorb vast amounts of knowledge was impressive.

Yet…if there was itching powder to be found in the Templar uniforms, exploding meatballs at dinner time, or a sparring dummy dressed in an evening gown sitting in the Knight Commander's chair…She would unerringly be the suspect at the top of everyone's list…and mystifyingly, always the first to be cleared of any wrong doing. She was a conundrum; a puppy chasing its tail for no other reason than it _could._ It was also difficult to dislike the girl. It would have been like kicking that loyal, large-eyed puppy as she treated all she encountered without distinction, inequality and with an annoying familiarity that made his jaw ache.

"Tell me, Amell," Irving paused, regarding the nearly invisible pattern of the rug. As First Enchanter he felt _obligated _to understand her. "Do you enjoy being a mage?"

She stared at him unblinkingly with her large brown eyes. Irving was completely unaware that she was at present, _not _contemplating his question, as he expected, but a bit of fluff on his shoulder. After a while, he felt it necessary to prompt her. "Well?"

Amell appeared to give herself a shake. Cocking her head to the side, she tapped her chin with a thoughtful finger. "Do I enjoy being a mage?" she repeated, turning the sentence over in deep consideration.

"Why yes, First Enchanter!" she clapped her hands like an enthusiastic three-year old, causing him to startle from the unexpected noise and sudden movement. "I just _love_ being a mage! It's the best!"

_Is she being sarcastic?_ Irving glared, waiting for the mask of bright enthusiasm to dissipate under his penetrating, see-all, know-all, First Enchanter's gaze. Disappointingly, it remained fixed in place. Turning his weary attention to the bookcase opposite, he sighed to himself. It disturbed him to think that had he been asked the question, he would have replied with a similar response, if not so…animatedly.

_What is the use, really?_

"Very well, Apprentice Amell," he said finally. "Thank you for your time. In future I expect you will endeavour to be more careful with sharp implements in Herbalism, yes?"

"Oh, I didn't cut myself on a knife, First Enchanter!" she informed him cheerfully. "It was a leaf cut!"

_A leaf cut…? _His eyes narrowed at her, but he did not feel inclined to pursue the subject. There were only so many hours in a day.

"Be…" he swallowed the sigh. "Be careful all the same…"

"Aw, thanks First Enchanter…I will!"

"Very good, very good. You are dismissed," he waved at her hastily; keen to have the serenity of his office returned to him by having her leave it.

He heard her skip to the exit. The door swung open then shut; the click of the lock mechanism sending a wave of relief over him. Returning to his desk, he moved a sheaf of correspondence from the innocuous brown box beneath. He lifted the lid, peering inside, smiling. His afternoon cup of tea awaited him; golden brown and still steaming, it would be at the perfect temperature for drinking.

At some time during the course of his fairly recent leadership at the Head of the Circle of Magi in Ferelden, a rather annoying tradition had been established amongst the apprentices and younger mages in the Tower. He had no idea where this particular idea came from (though _that _name came to mind), but it made his once serene, civilised moments of the day fraught with anxiety and tension. Every day he vowed he would not be bested.

Every day he failed.

Today would be different.

Removing the cup from the box, Irving raised it to his nose. He sniffed. Nothing unusual. He inspected the colour. It was a perfect dark caramel brown with just a hint of cream. Confident nothing was amiss, Irving set the cup to his lips and took a sip. It tasted like tea. Emboldened, he drank more deeply, feeling something large and round bump against his upper lip. He froze.

Lowering the cup he took a deep breath before flicking his eyes downwards. The enchanted glass eyeball rolled over helpfully and _winked_ at him, before bobbing back down below the surface of the tea.

Irving placed the cup quietly onto its saucer. _Tomorrow…_he told himself with grim determination. _I will not fail tomorrow…_and…_I did not see her do it, but I'll be damned if I wasn't sure it was Amell…_

-oo-

_"Glorble, snerk…gnargh…"_

Judging by the volume and frequency of Jowan's snores reverberating from the top bunk, Merran guessed the time being an hour or two after midnight. The First Enchanter had not come to slaughter all in the Tower as he had stated. Of course, she knew he _wouldn't, _but she could not help feel disappointed all the same.

Death by blood mage…It would have been an interesting fate for anyone who had never been allowed to _live_. In the still, cabbage-scented atmosphere of the apprentices' dormitory, Merran wondered yet again what life would be like if she simply accepted _being_ here. If she simply accepted being surrounded day after day by lifeless cold rock and lifeless cold men in plate armour. Accepted the inevitable routine of waking up, washing, eating, studying…eating again…studying again and then finally, sleep to rest for the next day of much the same. Even the threat of random incineration, electrocution or possession did not add any particular colour to the routine.

She was destined to exist in a world of grey the rest of her days, it seemed.

_"Snarkk…glubble, glubble…Snorrttt!"_

She had once considered escaping. Just the once. It had been a nice dream to pursue; slipping into the shadows of the forest during a supervised field trip…jumping into Lake Calenhad for a quick swim to freedom…or hiding in one of the many, anonymous barrels that appeared to be exchanged between the kitchen and the outside world…

The problem with any of these schemes was that apprentices were supervised by the most suspicious, sneaky, distrustful individuals in Thedas. If an apprentice strayed one millimetre from a set area, they would be herded silently but firmly back towards the others. The shores of Lake Calenhad were also diligently patrolled and apprentices reminded that were they fortunate to survive the freezing temperatures of the lake, the unusually aggressive aquatic denizens might not be so forgiving.

As for the barrels…The Templars used them quite frequently to test the sharpness of their longswords. Occasionally, the barrels would bleed…

_"Porridge! Glorble, ngnnnnggg…snorrrkk!"_

Failed escapism aside, Merran knew that mages left the Tower from time to time and not just Tranquil either. What was the secret to being trusted to travel outside she wondered?

There was the Harrowing of course. Apprentices rarely – if ever – were to be trusted in public, but Ferelden mages were not confined to the country of their origin. They travelled abroad, gathering information, meeting with other mages, _discussing _magic…There were even mage-run establishments that sold merchandise of an arcane nature. Clearly there was a market. If people were buying, then despite the fear and abhorrence surrounding a mage's existence, a fascination with the magically afflicted existed enough for the ordinary person to purchase a cursed monkey's paw or a lucky rabbit's nose.

Then there were the _other _type of mage, Merran thought with some pain; mages that assisted Templars to search for unregistered mages or those showing early signs of magic. Some mages even found gainful employment serving nobles and the community – even the Crown – as healers, battle mages…which was a concept that made Merran shudder in distaste. Use her magic to destroy, to kill? She didn't know whether she could abuse her magic in such a way.

Mages had served in the war with Orlais. That was just basic history; important but hardly of interest to her. They had also been involved in some way in the last four Blights fighting alongside the Grey Wardens; even _been _Grey Wardens, which was far more fascinating. Unfortunately for her curiosity, despite the Tower of Magi's library being one of the most extensive in Ferelden, there were few books about the enigmatic, mysterious Order. Most of the ones she had found had read like collections of Fairy Tales; great people who appeared when they were needed, disappearing when they were not. Little to nothing could be found about how one became a Grey Warden and even less about the creatures they fought.

Darkspawn.

The word was both thrilling and terrifying.

So what did Grey Wardens do when there wasn't a Blight on? Did they just go somewhere to rest up and train for the next one? Were they magically put to sleep, waking up at the first sign of Darkspawn amassing…? For that matter, did Grey Wardens ever grow old, heading off to that big castle in the Anderfels…? Weisshaupt Fortress; retirement home for Grey Wardens…?

_"My turn at the net, Algy! glorble, glorble, num num num…snrrk!"_

Merran considered aiming a lightning bolt at the bottom of Jowan's bunk, even if he was better than one of those new-fangled time-measuring things that went _ding _every hour on the hour with a bell…Instead she rolled over, wrapping her thin pillow around her head.

When was she ever likely to meet her Harrowing, if ever? Was the First Enchanter still collecting enough offences to justify making her Tranquil? She could have sworn he had been fingering the dreaded Red Book this afternoon while she had been in his office…

_"Argle, blargle…growp!"_

Merran rolled her eyes. That had been unusually loud for Jowan, but if her bunk mate had descended again into indecipherable utterances, it would be dawn soon. Once again she would be too tired to sit through…and she had to _really _think what day it would soon be and what delights would be in store for her…_Huh…Potions, poultices and poisons…_Not Enchanter Leorah's informative lessons, but Senior Enchanter Mallim whose unrelenting drone was _guaranteed _to put even the most wide-awake into fits of head-nodding. _Well good. Maybe I can do a bit of catch up at the back…_All she had to do was get Jowan to cast a glyph of silence around her. There was no sense in disrupting the rest of the class with her snores…

_"I say pip, pip old tadpole! Off to the briny drink, eh wot?" _

_What kind of stupid Fade dream is he having anyway?_ Merran pondered as she finally allowed her mind to release her hold on consciousness. Sinking deep into the darkest and lowest depths of her mind she closed her eyes…and then _closed_ her eyes_,_ floating silently towards the fluttering, smudged tears in the Veil to the Fade…

-oo-

Wings of midnight soared in the starless, bleeding sky. The creature circled, trailing fire and smoke and death, burning a trail across the landscape with rotting, decayed breath. It was once alive this creature; twisted and malformed; enslavement transforming it into something barely resembling the proud and noble dragons of old. Once, it would have ruled the skies; had domination over the earth, but now it was little more than a mockery of what it had once been. A vile creature. A dread beast. A harbinger of destruction.

The end of all things.

It was an old god shackled by invisible, unbreakable chains within its own mind; hungry for escape. It remembered freedom; a time when time meant nothing; having a will of its own. Merran raised an arm, intangible fingers testing the flow of the wind. _Freedom…_She felt sorry for the poor creature…to never have had a life of one's own was easy in comparison. To have known it and then had it stolen away…

Rancid air burning her nostrils, Merran bent down, touching the rock at her feet. It was warm, as though heated from beneath. The glowing river of fire just beyond was exactly that; a river of molten fire and rock, oozing lazily along the bottom of the narrow canyon. She could see moving shapes along the ledges and banks, impossible as it seemed in the intense heat. Oddly shaped humans, dwarves, elves…the combined cacophonous roar of their voices echoed eerily and as unhuman like as anything she could ever imagine. And above it all; the fiery river, the sundered landscape and the masses of dark, shouting figures; a single voice screamed.

_Help me…_

Tears flowed hot down Merran's scorched cheeks. "I can't help you!" Merran shouted back, her voice small and weightless. "I don't know how…"

"Well, if I haven't heard _that_ a hundred times or more in the last decade…every time I've asked you for notes or a bit of a favour…" Another voice spoke. "Huh, it's not like I've ever asked you to commit murder for me or anything..."

Merran blinked her eyes, the Fade dream lingering too close to consciousness for comfort. She banished the last of it, mentally 'stitching' the torn tendrils of the Veil back together as she returned out of the Fade. Jowan had not appeared to notice her distraction; too busy keeping a wary eye on the Templar standing guard by the door. A Templar always stood on guard at every entry to the apprentices' dormitories, just in case a mage woke up as something other than a mage…Mages were like that. Here today, an abomination tomorrow.

"You've been requested to attend the First Enchanter," Jowan hissed at her, tugging at her arm when she made no attempt to move. "And it's well past morning."

Sleep-fogged and reluctant to move, Merran groaned. Rolling over she tried to hide under the blanket by wrapping it around her head. "I saw him yesterday…" she muttered indistinctly. "I'm not scheduled for another office visit for at least a week…Go away Jowan."

"You're the last one here, Merran," Jowan informed her. He ripped the blanket ruthlessly from her curling, resisting form. "Everyone is already downstairs at breakfast. If you don't hurry you'll miss out and trust me, if your stomach gurgles during Theory of Enchantment and Stalker-Templar thinks you've turned into an Abomination, I'm not going to stop him from taking…_steps_."

_Steps? _"That's 'Ser Cullen' to you," Merran yawned. Yanking her pillow out from under her she threw it at Jowan. "And he's kind of cute," she added affectionately. "Don't you just want to pat the top of his curly little head and give him a great big hug?"

"Are you trying to get me killed?" Jowan demanded, throwing the pillow back. "He _loathes_ me."

"Loathes you, loves you…" she sang. "It's all the same. He just looks like he needs a hug."

"Don't change the subject."

By taking a hold of both her arms, Jowan hauled Merran out of the bed. She gasped when her feet touched the chilly stone floor, teeth chattering loudly. Jowan was unsympathetic to her discomfort.

"Come _on,_" he urged. "Get up already. First Enchanter remember? His office. _Now_…"

She blew a raspberry at him. Jowan's nose wrinkled in distaste, waving a hand in front of his face.

"On second thoughts, you might want to brush your teeth first," he suggested.

"Oh that's rich, coming from _you _and your nightly explosions of bottom bubbles…" she groused unhappily.

Jowan was undeterred, hustling her towards the shared wash area and placing a lump of chalk in one hand and a willow twig in her other. Halfway through, he threw a mostly clean apprentice's robe over her head, shuffling her out of the door before she had managed to put her arms through the sleeves. By the time the two of them had made it to the lower mess area however, meal time was over, so he hustled her back up the stairs to the First Enchanter's office, snagging a single, stale bread roll from the main table on the way through.

Berating her the entire way for her tardiness and lack of enthusiasm, he parked her squarely in front of the door to the First Enchanter's office. He knocked on the door then bestowed a parting pat on her head.

"Good luck with the Harrowing!" he said cheerfully, turning towards the stairs.

Merran woke up.

"_WHAT_?" she exclaimed, the colour draining from her face. She leapt after Jowan, feet skidding across the stone floor when she clamped her arms firmly and limpet-like around one of his. He kept on going as though she were nothing more than an inconvenient pimple.

"Wah…wait…Jowan…_Harrowing?"_ she asked breathlessly.

Only now did he stop, resting fists onto his hips. "You sound as if you don't know…Wait, you saw Irving _yesterday_," he frowned at her. "Didn't he tell you?"

"He said nothing about it!" she whined. "He just asked me…" her voice trailed away into a blur of bafflement." He asked me whether I liked being a mage…Now does that seem like an odd question to you?"

"And…what did you tell him?" Jowan asked, afraid of the answer.

"Meh," she shrugged, "I told him it was a blast."

Jowan groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Can you not for once in your life take anything seriously? _Seriously…_you said _that _to the First Enchanter?"

Merran threw her hands helplessly into the air, completely unrepentant; "He asked me a stupid question and I answered in the spirit in which it was given. I even did a little dance…Hey," she frowned abruptly, "you don't think he forgot to tell me on purpose, do you?"

Jowan merely groaned as though in pain. Merran observed him briefly then sighed. "Oh…never mind," she conceded. She pointed to the First Enchanter's door. "So…Harrowing, _now_?"

"So it seems…" Jowan murmured faintly.

"'kay…"

Dragging her feet, Merran returned to the entry to Irving's office. Her shoulders slumped, but she reached out for the door handle anyway. Feeling slightly envious, Jowan continued on to the stairwell, turning back briefly to call: "Yeah, and if you come back possessed, I'm claiming the lower bunk!"

-oo-


	2. Let Her Not Have Cake

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and bookmarks guys – you're the best :o)

Revised March 2012 – yes. 'Revised'…

-oo-

**Chapter 2 - Let her not have cake**

"…and I think my mother hated me and this is why I turned to a life of crime…subsisting in this pitiable form in order to test the mettle of young apprentice Mages…"

The mouse appeared to favour Merran with a sidelong look, but as its eyes were on the side of its head, that description was debatable.

"Um," it began timorously. "So…I-I've answered your question. Can you go now? _Please_?"

Merran frowned at the demon; for _demon_ it was and a powerful one at that. She could _feel_ the multiple echoes of others – apprentices who'd failed to recognise this creature for what it was – bouncing off the tiny creature. Clearly, the form of a defenceless rodent had been an effective disguise, though why this should be so Merran could not quite accept or understand. Especially since the demon appeared to be terrified of her.

The trembling entity had been the first seemingly sentient creature she had encountered when she had entered the Fade. It had given a startled squeak and had dashed away, squealing in terror. Merran of course, had pursued him. In the Fade; the realm of dreams and magic, space and distance did not always exist the way as most knew it. All Merran had needed to do was remain standing unmoving and the mouse reappeared right in front of her again. This time, she'd immobilised him with a quick paralysis spell. Once held, it had turned out to be quite…_chatty, _passing on information that she hadn't even intended to ask him, including a list of his failed relationships involving _hunger demons_…If every Mage in the Fade had a demon equivalent, Merran was quite sure she had just met Jowan.

"I've told you everything I know," the demon pleaded piteously. "You promised to go if I did."

Merran frowned at the mouse. "But I just got here!" she told him. "This is a Harrowing. I'm supposed to be _tested_."

"Oh?" it said, ears twitching. "'Test' you say? Well…in that case…What is one plus one?"

"Eh…?" Merran gawped at it. "Is this a trick question?" _Am I supposed to say 'the colour blue', perhaps?_

"No, no, no. No trick," the mouse was quick to assure her. "Um."

Merran continued to stare. The mouse-demon continued to look hopeful.

_Fine. _"Two," she replied.

The demon's tiny demon claws twitched happily in its equivalent of demon-clapping. "Correct!" it exclaimed. "Test over. Now_…_you can leave!"

Merran contemplated the demon severely. To be quite honest, she rather liked the Fade. It was warm and comfy and – even it was a bit like sitting inside a pumpkin – mostly interesting. She could do almost anything she liked here; could call anything and everything into existence. Feeling hungry? _POOF! _Instant toasted cheese sandwich. A bit tired? _POOF! _That sofa in the shape of a humorously-reclining Templar she'd always wanted appeared. Like _magic_.

So…swinging her legs idly from the edge of her Templar-shaped seat, Merran nibbled thoughtfully at her toasted cheese sandwich, contemplating the mouse and her options. There was a small part of her that frowned disapprovingly upon what could have seemed like unnecessary cruelty to small, defenceless beasties. The other, larger part reminded the first part that it was barking mad and could it please shut up because demons were dangerous, conniving, evil creatures who _ate _anything too clueless to realise that not everything in the Fade was what it appeared to be.

_This Demon,_ she reminded herself again, had _eaten _Apprentices_…_Lots of them. _And this sandwich tastes like sand. It needs something…pickle?_

As Merran considered how she could improve her Fade-snack, she became aware of other voices; tiny, incoherent murmurs barely audible at the edge of her hearing. In the real world, a Mage hearing voices was a bad thing. In the Fade…it meant that she was indeed…_not alone._ So she waited, bouncing the mouse-demon in one hand while contemplating the contents of her sandwich in the other.

The voices gradually increased in confidence and volume until she could make out sentences. She frowned.

…_Is she gone yet?_

_No, still there, _came the response

_Maker's Breath, can't any of you hex her, or something? _A new voice…female?

_You're invoking the Maker _here_? Are you insane? You're a demon! _the first voice hissed.

The sandy sandwich in Merran's hand dematerialised. She peered into the orange mist, at the moving shapes out there. "You know," she called out. "I _can_ actually hear you."

A panicked silence followed; a sudden _stillness _in the air then…

_What did she say? _

_She can hear us? _

_Stop pushing me! _

_She can hear us!_

_Maker's breath!_

_Will you stop saying that? It's…sacrilegious…!_

'_Sacrilegious'? You jest, surely?_

_Will the lot of you just…Look, fine, _fine_. We'll do this fairly and objectively. Are we agreed? Yes? On the count of three…one…two…No! Damn it – paper crushes stone. This is paper, all right? Of course I know the rules! No, I'm _not _making it up! Ooh! Lies and calumny! I…I did _not _change my rock into paper and alright, alright, I'm going, don't _push _me…_

Merran dispelled the paralysis spell on the mouse, whereupon it leapt off the palm of her hand and skittered into the fog. More frantic whispering ensued, while a lone figure took more solid form as it approached. Walking with jerky, reluctant steps, the Desire Demon shot resentful glares over her shoulder until she was within a safe distance of the young Apprentice.

Merran winced when the Demon crossed her arms across her…breasts. They were both pierced with chains attached…and that _had _to hurt…Still, Merran mused. Lucky the Fade had no temperature as such. Demon dressed like that (or _not _dressed at all, as the case might be) might catch their _death_…

"I, uh…I…I…I…will…" The Desire Demon paused to take a breath, her impressive assets heaving as she did so, along with rattling of chains.

"If you leave us," the demon managed in a tolerably confident voice, "I will grant you your _deepest_ desires."

_Oh. _

Merran shoved her hands into her pockets. She was deeply disappointed. Not-so-tasty sandwiches and humorously-shaped furniture aside, she had expected more than wee, timorous beasties and trembling demon breasts from the Fade. Where were the terrifying beasts? The slavering fiends? Evil incarnates who hungered and preyed on the souls of young and hopeful apprentices? What were these stuttering, hesitant entities? There were Senior Enchanters back at the Tower who were more terrifying in their smallclothes.

_This is a Harrowing? Mages actually _fail _this test? _It was…was…There seemed little she could do. She sighed a sigh that came from the depths of her lower intestine.

"Very well then," she began. "If that's the case, then I'd like…"

The Fade landscape dissolved; replaced by the still unfamiliar surroundings of the Harrowing chamber. Her sudden arrival appeared to surprise both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander, if their boggling expressions were any indication.

First Enchanter Irving was the first to recover. "You're back," he said, stating the obvious. "Surprisingly…_early_."

"Yeah," Merran started. She was embarrassed. She knew she _should _be embarrassed…She hoped this wouldn't count as a 'fail'. The thought of some kind of substitute testing filled her with trepidation. "They…" she fidgeted nervously. "Well, they said they'd give me what I wanted, if I'd leave the…"

"_What_!" the Knight Commander exploded. "You contracted an _agreement_ with a Demon?" He drew his sword as he advanced on her; the other Templars in the room following suit.

"What did they grant you?" the Knight Commander demanded roughly. "The power of blood? Dominance over us all?"

"No…" Merran protested hastily. "I…they…they gave me _this_…"

She held up her prize for all to see. The Knight Commander immediately dashed it out of her hands, sending it splattering messily to the floor. He and the other Templars set upon it with their swords, the familiar tingle of the Templars' Cleanse Area spell prickling her skin.

Horrified at such a waste, she lunged forward, only to find the First Enchanter's hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

"But that was…!" she protested. "That was my cake…" _Strawberry shortcake…Andraste take every, bloody dessert-hating Templar_!

By the time the Templars had finished_ neutralising _the slice of cake, it was merely a pinkish smear on the Harrowing Chamber floor. The Knight Commander then turned on the two Mages; caterpillar-thick eyebrows drawn downwards in angry suspicion.

"What else did the demons _grant_ you?" he growled.

Again, the First Enchanter stepped up to Merran's defence. Hand raised in a gesture of peace, he quite clearly imposed himself between his Mage and the Templars.

"Might I suggest removing this conversation to my office?" he suggested; his calm, quiet voice a sharp contrast to the Knight Commander's belligerence.

"_What_?" Greagoir barked. "Are you _mad_, Irving? What else did the apprentice bring back? I would counsel you _against _leaving this room until we are _absolutely _sure…"

"Peace, Greagoir," Irving repeated his plea for calm. "I am quite sure all that returned from the Fade was the…_cake_."

He turned, bestowing a benign but nevertheless congratulatory smile on Merran.

"You have passed your Harrowing, young lady…" he told her. "And in an impressively short time too…."

Turning his back firmly on his Templar counterpart, the First Enchanter began to bustle Merran from the room. Chancing a look up at him as the two of them passed under the arch of the great doorway she was struck by his expression. Despite the friendly, approving tone earlier, Irving did not look happy. Far from it. In fact, if anything his expression appeared to be quite the opposite…

-oo-

"_Afraid_…? You can not be serious Irving!"

When the Knight Commander paced, things clanged and rattled and _jingled._ Merran thought _jingling _a completely inappropriate noise for a Knight Commander. He should be _bonging_, or going _gadoing_ or something with a similar, manly, martial sound. Large, grizzled old soldiers in heavy plate completely ruined their image entirely by jingling like those bells handed out at Satinalia for children to play with. Jingling was friendly. Playful. How were people supposed to take tinkling Templars seriously?

"Please describe – in detail – the path your Harrowing took," Irving requested her once more. Arms clasped behind his back, the First Enchanter remained solidly unmoving, allowing his Templar counterpart to use up all the restless energy in the room by stalking it from one end to the other.

Obediently, Merran described – _again_ - her Fade experience, from the moment the Lyrium well sucked her into the Fade to her return to the Harrowing Chamber. Throughout it all, Knight Commander Greagoir maintained a sceptical sneer. Demons? Running from an _Apprentice_ in terror? It was unheard of! The Senior Templar snorted his disbelief like a restless bull, continuing to wear the rug with his relentless pacing. But Merran didn't know what else she could do. Impersonating the demons had not helped. Nor did the very accurate sound effects. While she could understand the Templars' distrust in her - it was their _job_ to suspect every Mage after all – the fact remained that she had _returned _and unabominated at that. Greagoir's grumbling almost made it seem as though he was _disappointed _there weren't possessed Mages running about, blood magic staining the walls and abominations ruining the furniture. _Be careful what you wish for, Knight Commander…_she thought sourly at him.

"What was that, Amell!" Greagoir rounded on her with flashing eyes. She shrank back. _Aw nug poop. Did I just say all that out loud?_ The First Enchanter did not seem to have heard anything…

"Anger is counterproductive," the elder Mage intervened. "Amell's story may seem quite fantastic to _you,_ Greagoir, but stranger things have been known to happen."

The Knight Commander came to a shuddering, jingling stop. Sharp eyes narrowed at the young Mage, "How do we know she isn't lying, Irving?"

"Because _I _would know," Irving responded with a confident smile. "Do you take me as a fool, Greagoir?"

"Demons!" Greagoir spat in disdain. "_Demons_…afraid of this…this _girl?_ I've never heard of such a thing – and I have served the Chantry a long time, Irving."

"And _I_ have served the Circle even longer than that," Irving reminded his colleague patiently. "I…do have some possible hypotheses in mind, but in order to test them we must…Yes?" The First Enchanter broke off abruptly to answer the door. He opened it to a young Tranquil.

"The Grey Warden is here, Knight Commander, First Enchanter," the Tranquil told them with a nod to both men.

"Ah, thank you, young man…" Irving smiled at the visitor behind the Tranquil. Still wearing down the rug, Greagoir made an unhappy, growling noise at the unwanted interruption of a _visitor_.

At the mention of 'Grey Warden', Merran shuffled sideways, trying to win first view of the new arrival. Grey Wardens were…_legendary, _almost mythical_._ What could one be doing at the Tower of Magi? Yet…here was one now. A real one and everything! As the First Enchanter was obscuring her view, she shuffled a little more, emerging to the keen, dark-eyed gaze of a man the First Enchanter was introducing as 'Duncan'_._

"Your timing as usual Duncan," Irving beckoned the visitor inside, "is impeccable_._"

She knew it was rude, but Merran could not help staring. _If he shakes my hand…_she thought head-spinningly, _I promise hand over heart that I won't wash it for months…_The Knight Commander however, was not as keen on the new arrival as she.

"I suppose you're here _recruiting,_ are you?" the elder Templar growled. "I am sick and tired of the Wardens' ceaseless requests for assistance. I have no Templars to spare; my numbers are stretched enough as it is."

"Ah well…" Irving tried not to look smug…tried_ very_ hard. "The _Warden Commander_ is here on my request." And he almost managed it too. "So you will be pleased to know none of your Templars are at risk of Warden-hood, Greagoir."

The Knight Commander curled his lip at the First Enchanter. "In that case," he snapped. "You will not require my presence!"

Striding to the door, he cast a final, warning glare at Merran - making it absolutely clear that the discussion of her Harrowing and effect on the less trustworthy denizens of the Fade was _far_ from over – and threw the door open. "Good day Irving…Warden_ Commander._" The door slammed shut behind the Templar; the sound of the reverberating door smothered by Irving's amused chuckles.

"Still prickly as ever," the Grey Warden commented with a small smile of his own. "It is good to know that there are some things in Ferelden that endure, even in these troubled times."

"Greagoir would not be Greagoir without his thorns," Irving agreed. He gestured at Merran to approach, expression turning solemn. "Please allow me to introduce you." He waggled his fingers towards Merran, "Child, this is Duncan, Warden Commander and head of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden."

"Which is not as impressive as it sounds," Duncan pointed out good-naturedly. "Considering how few Wardens there are in Ferelden."

"You are too modest, my friend," Irving told him with amused reproof. "Protecting us all from the Blight is no small task." Placing a hand on Merran's shoulder, he continued, "_This_ is Merran Amell…now the proud owner of the fastest Harrowing I've had the pleasure to witness in two decades.

Duncan's eyebrows rose, impressed. Clearly, Merran thought, watching the man closely, this Grey Warden knew a thing or two about Mages and the Circle.

"_This_ is the apprentice – Mage – that you wished to discuss with me?" the Warden asked.

"Yes," Irving replied, eyes twinkling.

Now feeling like a horse being scrutinised for sale, Merran tried to make herself smaller. Yet, despite feeling almost overwhelmingly self-conscious, the tiniest sliver of an idea began to grow in her mind…just a spark…_They're recruiting…The Grey Wardens…Does this mean? No, it can't be, but then why talk about…? _

Escape. A chance at a life somewhere outside these suffocating walls. Of course, _she _was just a freshly-Harrowed Mage. There were far more experienced and capable Mages in the Tower that could easily make a Warden. Not to mention; _jump_ at the chance.

"So," Irving said, jolting Merran back into the present. "I would be interested to hear your thoughts."

She knew the First Enchanter had not been speaking to her and risked a cautious peek up at the Grey Warden to find his speculative gaze upon her once more, even while it gave her an opportunity for a better view of him.

The Commander of the Grey was a tall man. Silver ran through the Warden's neatly trimmed beard and in the sable hair at his temples. His face was a map of past experience as well as exposure to the elements, yet there was little of _age _about his bearing or the piercing intensity of his dark eyes. Irving might win on the number of _years _alone, but where Irving was stooped from many hours spent poring over magical tomes, Duncan's shoulders were square-set and wide; the light armour the Commander wore doing little to conceal the man's powerful physique. There could not be two men more unlike each other in the whole of Thedas than the bookish, scholarly First Enchanter and the Warden Commander.

Merran found the comparison leading her thoughts down some rather inappropriate paths. She clamped her lips firmly together, hoping for once her mouth would not betray her.

"You know as well as I, Irving," Duncan sighed, surprising Merran with the pronouncement. "She bears the Taint."

She blinked in incomprehension at the Warden Commander, her attention re-directed to the First Enchanter when the older man echoed Duncan's sigh.

"It makes sense," the elder Mage admitted softly. "Now that it has been said."

When Duncan turned to Merran, she shrunk a little more. "If I may be so bold as to ask a personal question…?" he began. "Do you specialise in any particular stream of magic?"

Merran glanced up at the First Enchanter, seeking clues for an appropriate answer, but her senior appeared to be more interested in studying the tangles in his beard than in offering any insights.

"Well, I…" she started, still unsure how to answer. Non-Mages rarely had an interest in what Mages did and the question Duncan had asked her was not normally another Mage would make so…"I'm…what one would call an 'all rounder'," she admitted slowly. "Though I'm pretty good at offensive spells; freezing, fire, lightning, paralysis, mild intestinal implosions. That sort of thing…" Her voice faltered at the odd sound the Grey Warden made.

Was he…_laughing?_ She looked towards the First Enchanter again; the man was now engaged in studying a watermark on the ceiling of his office.

"Ah…ahem," the Warden Commander bestowed upon her a kind smile that Merran did not know quite how to interpret. "A most _useful_ collection of talents."

"I also bake cookies," Merran added hastily, seeing her chances for being recruited fleeing. Perhaps Grey Wardens needed more practical skills? Should she also mention she could get just about any kind of stain out of clothing? Including abomination ichor…? Would that help?

The Warden however, looked baffled at this new offering. "Cookies?" he asked.

"Baked sweetened dough sometimes with dried fruit or nuts."

She spoke quickly, out of sheer anxiety "B-but I've also been experimenting with Orlesian cocoa chips…when they're a-a-attainable. Not that they ever _are…_" she added even more hastily, just in case the origin of _Orlesian cocoa chips _might ever be called into question. She _liked _Ser Cullen; despite needing to complete his sentences for him and he looked like a bearded tomato in heavy plate. Of all the Templars in the Tower he was amongst the few who were willing to be friendly. Plus, he could carry enormous piles of text books and didn't seem to mind Jowan's rude, suggestive snickering in the background whenever they talked...

Deep silence fell after her words. Merran's head drooped. _Now, I've done it…Ruined all my chances…_

When the First Enchanter spoke, for what seemed like several hours later, Merran jumped, startled. "Well, Duncan?"

The Grey Warden's smile was enigmatic. "Yes, Irving," he said simply. "She will do…if you think you can spare her."

Merran stiffened at these words, unsure whether her brain had understood the Warden's statement

"_Spare_…?" Irving chuckled at the term. "My dear friend, there are more important things in this world than maintaining the mage-templar ratio in this tower. I only wish I could send more into your ranks but alas, the King's requests take priority."

Merran took a deep breath, summoning her courage. "You…You want me to be a Grey Warden?" she asked Duncan cautiously.

"Why yes." As his smile broadened, dimples appeared in the unforested areas of his face. "There are risks to being a Grey Warden," he added a touch more solemnly. "Facing danger is part of our daily lives; lives that must be devoted wholly to defeating the Darkspawn and the Blight. It leaves time for little else, but a Mage would add greatly to our ranks. If you are willing to face these risks, we would be honoured to have you in the Order."

"I…" Merran felt her heart swell, threatening to choke her and affect her ability to speak. "You…I can leave?" she asked breathlessly. "With you? Today? Leave the Tower? Really leave?"

Irving chuckled, patting her shoulder. "Do not be so eager to leave the safety of this Tower, child. The free air can be quite daunting when there is a lot of it."

"Perhaps not immediately," Duncan added more carefully. "Though soon. Recruitment is not the only reason for my visit to the Tower. Would first thing tomorrow be 'now' enough for you?"

"_Yes_!" Merran almost shouted then clapped a hand to her mouth. Remembering her place she swivelled to face Irving. "Truly, First Enchanter? Am I to be a Grey Warden?"

Irving nodded, his expression turning grave. "You have quite the task ahead of you child. The duties of a Grey Warden are not to be taken lightly but I have hopes you will do the Circle proud."

"No – I mean _yes_, First Enchanter – I understand."

The senior Mage nodded, satisfied with her answer. Herding her towards the door, he added, "You may be excused from the evening's activities to prepare for your journey. See Owain; he will know what supplies you will need."

Her head spinning truly now, Merran barely noticed the door opening or leaving the First Enchanter's office. Without thinking, she paused to stretch up on tip toe; placing a kiss on the First Enchanter's papery cheek.

"Thank you First Enchanter," she told him breathlessly. "For _everything_."

Irving's expression remained grim under her shining gaze. He raised a hand to touch her cheek. "I sincerely hope you do not come to regret your gratitude, child," he told her quietly. "Now," he added in a more First Enchanterish tone of voice. "Off with you before I am overcome with sentiment and you are forced to bear witness to an old man crying like a babe."

Her glow was undiminished. Continuing to beam with happiness, Merran turned and skipped down the hall with clouds at her feet and the smell of the outside world beckoning her onwards.

-oo-

"Maker's breath, there you are!" Jowan pounced on her the moment she came flying through the door. "I was getting worried you'd…wait." He took a step back and looked her up and down. He frowned.

"When Weatherbee completed his Harrowing last week," he said thoughtfully stroking at an invisible beard, "they brought him in unconscious. Same thing with Jenna the week before that. Why aren't _you_? Holy Maker!" his brown eyes widened suddenly. "They changed their minds at the last moment and decided you weren't to take the Harrowing after all…No, wait…"

Merran danced a jig around him, ignoring his aimless speculation. "I'm leaving the Tower!" she announced, giggling. "I've just been recruited into the Order of the Grey!"

Jowan's jaw dropped with an audible pop. He stared speechlessly while she buzzed about the dormitory, sorting through the scant contents of her battered chest and throwing them onto her bunk.

"What to take…what to take…" she sang. The half-eaten box of Orlesian cocoa bits joined a faded, spare set of robes, along with a battered copy of _The Black Fox and Other Tales. _After some thought, she added parchment, hoarded strips of precious vellum and her favourite quill. A misshapen, oversized beanie from Jowan's woolly period joined the pile just as the hand of the knitter himself fell upon her shoulder.

"You're…" he began in a strained voice. "Did you just say…Grey_ Warden?_"

"Yes!" Merran squealed. "I'm leaving with the Warden Commander first thing tomorrow!"

"To…_tomorrow_?" Jowan's already pale complexion drained completely of colour. "But you can't…what am I…? Merran, you can't just leave me!" he exclaimed.

She stood for a long time, gazing up at her old friend. The two of them had been together for_ever_. He was her family; her brother. They had never really ever been apart before. They had depended upon each other for so long, but…_It's not like I can't come back to visit, right? _the little voice tried to reason inside her head. _And it's not like he's going to be completely on his own…_

"Look Jowan," she told him quite calmly. "You still have Lily."

Jowan choked. From completely white, he now turned red and then purple. "Li…Li…Li…!"

Merran rolled her eyes. "Oh come _on_. It's not like everyone doesn't know about you and the chubby initiate. Word of advice Jowan?" she added, leaning in and pitching her voice low. "Chantry chapel? _Not _a good place for a snog. Not when the two of you sound like a couple of mating nugs."

"Nhngahh…!" Recovering his composure, he pouted at her. "I…_never_! Lily is a _lady _and I would never dream of…of…And she is _not _chubby! She's pleasantly round and has a wonderful personality! Which is more than I can say for y…"

"Oh and another thing?" Merran interrupted ruthlessly. She glanced warily over her shoulder, checking to make sure certain armour-wearing individuals were not within earshot. "The blood mage thing," she whispered. "Just don't do it, okay?"

He gaped at her; the purple colour departing, leaving his face white once more. Merran gave a nod of approval, hoping the shocked silence meant he had noted the warning.

"'Cos these sort of things," she added, just in case. "They only end in tears."

-oo-


	3. It's Not Easy Being Green

The frog idea isn't mine and comes from the very brilliant mind of Terry Pratchett. It just seemed like something Merran would do; thinking about magic too hard (instead of just doing the spell and not worrying about _detail_).

_Aaand_ a great big thanks to all of you who have very kindly sent reviews and/or bookmarked this story. It's pretty amazing that there are real, actual people out there who want to read this…wow. I'm depending on you kind people to let me know if I slip up or write rubbish.

Really.

-oo-

**Chapter 3 – It's Not Easy Being Green**

_One_…

_Two_…

_Three_…

_Four_…

_This isn't working._

Who'd ever come up with counting imaginary agricultural beasts as a way to relax and fall asleep had obviously never lived in the Tower of Magi. Merran had never seen a sheep before and so – after exhausting her _known_ list of beasts of the field – resorted to counting Apprentices…then Senior Enchanters with comb-overs…which was surprisingly, quite a high number. But counting anything just did not work. Sleep eluded her and her eyes refused to remain closed. As soon as her eyes snapped open the world would tilt sharply and she would feel as though she was being sucked upwards into the ink-dark, never ending openness of the sky.

It didn't help that she was not on particularly sleep-friendly terrain. Stones dug painfully into her hip, back, arms and front and moving about trying to position herself comfortably on the lumpy ground only made the dizziness worse.

What was wrong with her? It wasn't as if she'd never been outside the Tower before. True, those rare trips outside the Tower of Magi had been strictly controlled, supervised and limited to the sparsely wooded grounds and herb gardens of the Tower itself, but it was still _outside. _It was quite a…shock to find the world was rather more…expansive than she previously thought.

_Urgh…don't think expansive…don't think wide…don't…When are my intestines going to stop trying to crochet beanies in there…? _And then another voice, sounding suspiciously like Jowan: _You're being an idiot_. _It's just _outside. _How many Mages would give their right arm to be outside…?_

Merran squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. She was _trying _to enjoy this. Really, but…_Andraste's spotted snood, __what was that noise_?

It was the kind of noise that belonged to something feral and…_hungry…_and large…and possibly hungry. With teeth. Lots of them. For ripping the flesh from their faces before…The wind blew, but it was not the sort of wind-blowy noise that Merran normally associated with wind, but with something twitchy and carnivorous. With teeth. Lots of them. On their wings. Something growled…_definitely something with lots of teeth…_and some toothy creature slithered through the carpet of dead leaves…hungrily. And toothily.

Merran suppressed the urge to run. After all, where could she run to? And everyone knew that a running object only encouraged being chased down, ripped to shreds and…_Maker, what was I thinking? Why did I think I could do this?_

Fingers twisting in the fabric of her robes, Merran tried to remind herself that she had been the one who'd placed the protective wards around the campsite; damned good wards at that. She should have confidence in her magic, if nothing else. All a hungry beast needed to do was hit one of those wards or shields and _poof! _

Right?

Right.

Still…_When Irving said_ '_T__he free air can be daunting when there's a lot of it' he wasn't pulling my bells._ But Merran didn't have a problem with _air_. Air she could live with (well, who couldn't?). It was all the other creatures that were using it that she had a problem with.

She rolled onto her back, only to have another wave of dizziness swamp her. There were a lot of stars up there; the same ones she could see from the Tower, but the view had always been framed by wooden windows and armoured bookends and the lack of a limiting border made the sky seem wider, deeper; more expansive..._urgh, There's that word again._

She formed a square with her hands; holding them above her face against the night sky. It didn't help. Merran would never have thought it possible, but she was actually missing – _missing – _being surrounded by solid stone walls and the protection, the _solidity_ it gave to her previously narrow world. Solid walls stayed in the one place. Most of the time. It didn't hop around waiting for one of Duncan's daggers to come flying through the air to turn it into dinner. Stone didn't whisper eerily or creak above one's head or buzz or smell like you shouldn't have stepped in it and it'll never come out in a normal wash now...

Her unease with the wide open world was made worse by the Warden Commander's increasing wariness the further into the Wilds they travelled. It seemed that he did not sleep at all, becoming jumpier and more tense the further south they journeyed. Duncan stayed up late, woke early, and despite the lack of rest, never stopped moving.

Like their surroundings. _Nothing _stopped.

Of course the…_lake incident _may have contributed to his wariness. Duncan had laughed it off at the time, expressing his amusement that she had been able to conjure from out of nothing a bath of pink bubbles and purple bows on the two rather persistent 'gentlemen' that had accosted her just outside the Spoiled Princess. Merran had seen it slightly differently. If Duncan had censured her, been angry or embarrassed or just annoyed, she would have thought nothing of it. Instead…There were times when Merran thought being a mage was _brilliant_. Truly. Duncan thought her magic something to be valued too, but those men…those men had looked at her like…She had responsibilities beyond simply being a _good _mage. Outside the Tower, she had to be a _careful _one too.

Merran tried making up for that time on the shore of Lake Calenhad; made an effort to learn more about the Grey Wardens and the King's armies, the Darkspawn and the Blight. Duncan had been patient, answering as much as he could; his gentle but firm avoidance of certain topics chipping slowly but surely away at her enthusiasm. He had been only willing to tell her that the Mages' Tower was the last stop on his recruiting circuit of Ferelden. There were two more recruits awaiting their arrival at Ostagar (the remains of an ancient Tevinter city in the Korcari Wilds). While the Grey Wardens and the king's armies had won several minor skirmishes, these were not considered significant enough to call the Blight 'over'.

Thousands of Darkspawn not considered _significant_ though…?

And…_three _potential Wardens. If that was the total of Grey Warden recruits for a single year, it seemed that the Order shared the same popularity as Mages.

_Really…what have I gotten myself into? _Back on her bedroll, Merran shifted onto her side; an entirely new set of geology bruising her bruises. Lifting her hands from her eyes she groaned softly. _I give up…_

She rose, keeping her line of sight close to the ground and within the narrow radius of the length of her bedroll. Her gaze travelled eventually to the campfire - a crackling, hissing ball of magically-sustained flame - to the still dark figure on the other side. For a moment Merran panicked, thinking the hunched shape was Darkspawn, but of course it was only Duncan, bent over dagger and whetstone and she felt more foolish than ever.

While she contemplated what to say to him, the Warden Commander lifted his head. "You've been awake for some time now, Mistress Amell," he stated quietly. He indicated his dagger and stone. "Did I wake you? If I did, I apologise."

"No, not at all," Merran assured him hastily, rising. She took the blanket with her, wrapping it tightly about her shoulders against the damp and cold. She approached no further than a couple of steps from her bedroll, the better to observe him and judge his temper as well as maintaining a respectful distance. He surprised her by patting the space beside him. Merran complied, drawing her knees tightly to her chest and lowering her chin to try and conserve body heat. An owl hooted in a nearby tree, causing her to unwind abruptly, staring distrustfully into the darkened forest.

"I forget that you have never been outside the walls of the Mages' Tower, " Duncan murmured, dragging Merran's attention back, though he noted her eyes would dart now and again to their surroundings. "While a certain wariness is warranted, given our current proximity to Ostagar, you need not fear that the Darkspawn will take us unawares."

Merran smiled…or it was an approximation of a smile. Her cheeks bunched up and the corners of her mouth turned up, exposing an expanse of teeth. Then she remembered that amongst certain primates, baring of one's teeth counted as a challenge and she stopped smiling.

"It's…" she began and paused, embarrassed again by her seemingly illogical fear of wide spaces. "Big out here…"

The Warden Commander laughed; a soft huffing noise that almost had her baring her teeth again, this time in sheer nervousness.

"After a while, you'll get used to it," he told her kindly. "And you are not alone. What you are feeling is akin to that experienced by dwarves when they leave their underground cities for the first time. It takes a while, but you will acclimatize."

_Ah. That makes me feel…better?_

"So…" Merran began tentatively, because she didn't want to go back to sleep. Not just yet and the Warden Commander was the closest thing to solid, _safe_ stone out here. "You mentioned before that though an Archdemon was defeated in the last Blight, the Darkspawn were not destroyed completely…"

"Unfortunately no," Duncan said grimly. "Without an Archdemon leading them, the Darkspawn return underground, building their numbers until they can find another old god to taint."

"Surely they'd run out of old gods…?" Merran asked. "I mean, eventually?" _How many of them are there…? Seven? And this is the fifth…_

Duncan chuckled. "I suppose," he agreed. "The Tevinters believed there were seven gods in total."

"So, why don't the Grey Wardens try finding these old gods themselves?" she asked. "You know, get to them first and see if they can come over to our side instead of the Darkspawn?"

The Warden Commander gave her a look she couldn't quite decipher. Was he annoyed with her? How many times a day would a mere just-Harrowed Mageling question the knowledge of a time-worn, Darkspawn-hardened Grey Warden Commander?

_I think I've just answered my own question._

After a moment's silence, Duncan continued. "The Deep Roads where the Darkspawn normally reside are treacherous," he told her. "The dwarves have been fighting Darkspawn for generations and no doubt will continue to fight them to the end of time. As for finding the old gods themselves? It has been…considered."

"Only considered?" Merran heard herself ask.

Duncan merely nodded, casting his gaze beyond the fire to then rise above the treetops. "It is late Mistress Amell and we have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. You should get some rest while you can."

_Oh dear…now I really have made him mad…_

Merran stood, understanding clearly that she'd been dismissed. Settling down on her bedroll again, she curled up into a ball, pillowing her head on an arm and wondering how she was going to redeem herself this time.

She took a deep breath. "Warden Commander…?" she called out.

"Yes?"

"It's…alright to call me Merran," she told him. "'Mistress' is generally used to address – um – slightly more…_aged_ Mages."

The answering chuckle told her that he wasn't as angry at her as she believed. "Well," he replied. "We don't want to age you before your time, do we?"

"No. Maker, no. I don't even know how to knit properly yet and custard? Love it, but it gives me gas and you really didn't need to know that sorry forget I said it."

He laughed again. "I will," he said. "And remember to travel upwind of you on custard days."

"Appreciate it," Merran said, wincing.

The wind blew, the owl in the tree hooted. That something slithery in the forest made a snuffling, nuggy noise and an entire glee-club of frogs decided at that moment to expel a cacophonous collection of air into their surroundings. Merran shivered, tucking her feet even more tightly under her bottom. Eventually, her circulation would begin to protest, but if she was a small target…hiding the more vulnerable bits…? Forest creatures didn't attack bottoms did they? She didn't know. How many people that had had their bottoms attacked lived to tell the tale? How would they even walk ever again to let people _know_?

She cleared her throat. "Warden Commander…?" she called out again, just in case he'd decided to move on or had been Warden-napped by bottom-eaters.

"Yes Mis…Merran?"

"Uh…You…" _How do I say this? _"You don't seem to sleep much…"

No answer, but she decided to press on regardless.

"I was just wondering…When you become a Grey Warden, do you suddenly not need to sleep, or eat or…because I have this thing about cheese sandwiches. Toasted. Best eaten under the blankets after curfew because it tastes better…I mean Grey Wardens don't stop wanting to…do stuff like that do they?" Never want a cheese sandwich again? It was like death without the promise of an afterlife in the Fade…_Can I refuse to be a Grey Warden on the grounds of Dairy-philia?_

The Warden Commander seemed to find this question hilarious, if his laughter was anything to go by. "Oh no," he assured her. "I think you'll find that wherever there is a Warden there will be an empty larder." He added with high amusement: "We are renowned for our ability to consume large amounts of food in a single sitting. As for the rest…" He paused and it seemed Merran could feel his eyes burning through the campfire, to the little rolled up ball of cloth and Mage that was her. "You will find out soon enough."

"Ah…" _What a relief._

To her surprise, Duncan cleared his throat, indicating he'd more say. Merran uncurled enough to crane her neck, peering around the campfire but he was hunched over again, his face hidden by flame. There seemed to be a long, thoughtful pause before he spoke.

"I understand from the First Enchanter that you were found in Denerim," he began, "by one of the Chantry Sisters. Do you…remember much of your life before that? Before your time at the Tower?"

Merran blinked at the question. Then she shrugged. "Not really," she said. "I was young," she added. "Hm…maybe about two years of age, perhaps less. I understand I didn't even know my name, much less anything before that. The Sister who found me named me."

"You were a Chantry child then?" he asked.

Merran shook her head. "I had to go to the Tower straight away because I was already showing the 'signs'," she stated matter-of-factly. "Chantry are a bit strict about things like that."

"Surely it is rare for children to show talent at such a young age," Duncan stated, the frown clear in his voice. "While I cannot claim expertise in the area, I was given to understand children are not normally given over to the Circle before their tenth year or so."

Merran shrugged again. In truth, it had never really occurred to her. All and any memory she ever had involved magic. She had never been without it nor could she imagine being without it. Ever…and she told him so, adding, "Most children do start to show signs later in life. Some even in adulthood. It depends on the individual and their circumstances I suppose. I was fortunate in that respect."

"'Fortunate' you say?" he asked, surprised.

Merran grinned in the dark. Talking about magic made her feel…happy. Her magic was everything. It defined her, made her what she was. Not everyone appreciated it, or wanted it around them but how many people could toast a bit of bread and cheese to perfection with nothing more than a simple word?

"A lot of children arrive at the Tower having been taken from their families," Merran explained. "Quite frequently it's involuntary and even more frequently never see their families ever again. Me…All I've ever known is the Circle. It's _my _family; my home. Every Mage and Enchanter is a parent, every Apprentice my brother, my sister. "She chuckled. "Even Greagoir…he'd be like that disapproving, crotchety old Aunt in the hideous feathered hat. With wax cherries." Her chuckle turned into a fit of giggles at the image her head conjured up of the Knight Commander.

Duncan however, did not seem to find this amusing and she wondered whether she had just inadvertently insulted every elderly man in a position of power on the face of Ferelden with her comment about the Knight Commander. She sighed inwardly. _Well, tomorrow is a brand new day…_she told herself. _I can start over…?_

After what seemed like long, tense minutes of silence there was a clatter of metal on the other side of the fire and a creak of leather. "Goodnight Merran," he murmured, barely audible and she wanted to kick herself.

"Good night Warden Commander," she returned, unsure whether she should continue calling him 'Duncan' and going with the safer option of his title. She closed her eyes, finding as she did this time, the heavy pull of sleep. _Yup…Tomorrow we can start again…with more opportunities for eating my own foot…_It never occurred to her that he had addressed her by her first name.

-oo-

The air pressed painfully at her ears before the heavy shadow swept overhead; wind tearing at her hair and whipping it against her face. The deep boom of beating, massive wings followed, the ground thundering in response. The dragon sailed above the landscape in a wide arc; great plumes of flame issuing from gaping jaws. And in the distance a dark stain on the horizon rippled and roared; blackened ugly things neither human, or elven, or dwarf but a twisted mockery of every race on the face of Thedas. Horned, ashen-skinned beasts with clawed hands bellowed their dark challenges. Men-shaped creatures with rotting, dripping flesh and exposed bone brandished crude weaponry; pieces of sharpened metal and wood and arms stolen from hapless victims of previous battles.

And the Taint crept across the land, fouling and devouring, leaving all in waste and decay in its wake.

_You should not be here,_ a familiar voice screeched in her head.

"You wanted help," Merran spoke quickly into the wind. "Tell me how to help you!"

_Can you help? _the voice asked sceptically; fearfully.

"I can try, but I don't know _how_!" Merran yelled. "I don't even know who you are."

_I am…_

_CRASH_!

Merran woke with a shuddering jerk. It took precious seconds to realise not one but several of her magical wards had just been broken…_Broken…_! She spotted Duncan; dawn light flashing off his bright armour and drawn blades before her brain screamed: _GO!_

Fumbling about her bedroll, she located her staff and lurched to her feet.

_Where?_

Her mind tested the network of Wards, tweaking every strand in her head until she found the torn strands. She had just begun to wind them back together when all of them _snapped._

"Argh!" she slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm. "Nug poop! _Where_…!"

She ran in the direction she had last seen Duncan, magic crackling along her arms down to the Heartwood staff in her hands. A hideous shape exploded out of the ground in front of her…the lightning spell incinerating it in mere seconds. _No time to pause…_Three more of the…_things _appeared at once, surrounding her. Ice froze one. Another blast of fire cooked the second, but she didn't have time for the third before the mace it wielded descended. Merran flinched…blinked…she heard a thumping sound like an axe cutting wood and then…nothing.

The creature lay dead at her feet, the shaft of an arrow protruding from an eye socket.

"No time for sightseeing!" a cheerful voice brushed past, arrows flying from a longbow in rapid succession felling three more. "_Whoarg_!" He ducked too late, thrown to the ground by a charging beast unseen from the side. Merran inhaled sharply. _Two against three…four…six! _Not a fireball this time…she hunched and _concentrated…_

"Andraste's bloody_ flaming sword_!"

Merran opened her eyes, exhaling the breath she had been holding. Her mouth turned down at the scenery, startling when something touched her shoulder. It was only a hand – human - belonging to Duncan.

"That was the last of them," he stated. He surveyed the landscape with a puzzled expression then turned to her. "Are you harmed?" he asked. Her answer was interrupted by an excited shout.

"Duncan! Will you take a look at _this_…!"

Giving her shoulder a comforting tap, the Warden Commander approached the two soldiers. They wore no uniform, bore no colours to identify them. Grey Wardens, Merran wondered? They and Duncan seemed familiar with each other.

"Tolliver, Gareth; your timing is excellent," Duncan greeted them. "Though I did not expect any of the Wardens to be so far from the King's camp."

"We were tracking these bugg – er – blighters on our regular patrol," one of them said with an apologetic grimace at Merran. "And we're not as far from the King's camp as you'd like to think. Whoops! Slippery little bast – er - thing."

"But what is _this_?" the other Warden asked, poking a wary toe at a mound of wobbling pink stuff. It shivered, making a wet, bubbling noise, as though it was still alive and unhappy about the fact.

"I had one of these when I was a kid," the first Warden said, bending down to pick something small from between the mounds of flesh-pink jelly. The Warden's target hopped between his hands and headed towards Merran. "Slept on it by accident," he continued, making a dive for…it was just a frog; a simple, ordinary frog. Looking like one of the many that had tried to serenade them last night. "Mum was ever so cross with me," the Warden made another dive, landing on his stomach with a squelch. "Made me scrape every last bit out of my jammies. A-ha!" With a triumphant grin, the Warden held the captured amphibian aloft.

"Did you do this Miss?" he asked Merran.

"Uh…" she began, her face burning under the keen scrutiny of the three Grey Wardens. "Yeah, I'm really sorry about the – uh – mess." Feeling further explanation was necessary, she grimaced and added. "You see, I never know quite what to do with the leftover bits."

"Leftover…?" the Warden nearest Duncan repeated. He began inching away from the pinkish mounds, looking queasy.

"Yes," Merran nodded. "Relative volume and all of that. Those creatures are this big…" She stretched her arms out wide, "while frogs are _this_ small…" She then brought her hands close together. "So, you know," she grimaced again. "_Leftovers…_"

"Eargh…" the Warden with the frog exclaimed. He gave the amphibian in his hands a speculative look. "Hm, wonder if you can divide them up into several of the slimy little bast – uh – fellows?" he pondered. "Though, do this enough times and we'd end up with more frogs than I can say 'pass me the Rivaini hot sauce'."

_It was obvious_. Merran slapped her forehead. Why had she never thought of this before? "Of course!" she exclaimed. "But…Maker's marbles, I'd have to calculate the volume first before dividing it up and I've never been particularly good at numbers. They'd all end up different sizes and there might still be some left over…"

"Or missing some bits," the Warden called Gareth pointed out.

"Ew."

Duncan interrupted with a pointed clearing of his throat. "Might I suggest we continue to Ostagar?" he said, his words implying not a suggestion, but an order. "Seeing as the King's camp is not too far." He bestowed an approving smile on Merran. "You did well for someone facing Darkspawn for the first time," he told her encouragingly. "Even the most seasoned soldier has been known to falter in the face of these creatures. I have high hopes for you Merran."

The object of this high praise ducked her head demurely, sure that even her eyeballs were blushing. To be quite honest, she didn't think she had done all that well. If not for the frog-Warden despatching that third Darkspawn, she would not have been able to do anything about the others. It had been a close thing. And…

The Grey Warden without the frog gave her arm a friendly punch as he went past. The other – still holding the frog – winked at her then called after his Commander; "Hey Duncan…"

"No Gareth, you may _not _keep it," Duncan told him without looking back. Gareth shrugged, then with a sigh, placed the frog gently on the ground, where it immediately hopped back to the mounds of Darkspawn leftovers.

"Separation issues you think?" Gareth joked, jabbing Merran in the side with an elbow.

Merran returned nervous laughter, backing away to their campsite and her bedroll. She declined Gareth's offer of help, using the time to gather her thoughts.

_Darkspawn…_Feeling unworthy of Duncan's praise, she began packing her things.

This was not her first encounter with Darkspawn.

She'd been dreaming of these creatures for most of her life…

-oo-


	4. First Impressions

-oo-

**Chapter 4 – First Impressions**

Merran paused mid-step, folding her hands primly over her middle. "You don't have to follow me," she told her shadow. "I think I can find my way around. Thank you."

The Grey Warden called Gareth paused. He had been assigned to chaperone this one; Duncan's unusual interest in the Mage piquing his curiosity. Merran however, had hoped to be able to explore the Ostagar camp on her own. It wasn't as if she were a helpless child, incapable of looking after herself. The Grey Wardens could trust her, surely? She was just going to do a bit of harmless poking around; see what was about, include a quick visit to the Mage's enclosure to see what the other Mages were up to...When she'd gone by earlier the two Templars standing guard had been very brusque and Merran had suffered a pang of homesickness. A day just wasn't right unless a Templar had been a bit rude to her at least once and she'd wanted to head back so they could abuse her again. Prodding the Grey Wardens to annoy them was not the same. They were just too _polite_, even if Duncan would have made an excellent Templar. He at least had the stance just right; not to mention a stare that could shear the legs off a dromedary.

"The Warden Commander's said," Gareth reminded her, mimicking Merran's nose in the air.

Merran smiled placidly. "No he didn't."

"Yes he did," Gareth countered just as unruffled. She hadn't been privy to the _other_ conversation with their Commander, so of course didn't know that Duncan had _insisted_.

"I was there," Merran pointed out. "His exact words were: 'one of you gentlemen make sure that Merran knows her way around'. You've done that. I know my way around now. Thanks. So your job is done here."

The corners of Gareth's mouth pulled downwards as he pouted. "And now you're discarding me?" Rubbing a fist into one eye, he sniffed pathetically, "Used me just like that, but now I'm not good enough to keep you company? What about all the good times we've shared? The precious moments? All five minutes of them?"

Merran crossed her arms, casting the Grey Warden a look straight out of Senior Enchanter Wynne's arsenal of stern expressions. _She_ was here by the way, keeping a close eye on the younger Mages and dispensing her worldly advice by the sackful. Even from here, Merran could _feel_ the Senior Enchanter's curious gaze on them. It was a particularly sharp one, made even more piercing by Gareth's added bout of melodramatic blubbering.

"You're…You're breaking my heart!" the Warden wiped at an eye. "Mother didn't tell me Mages could be such cruel, cruel women."

"They can be cruel, cruel men as well," Merran told him briskly. "They can also freeze your bait and tackle while you stand." She added sweetly; "Would you like a demonstration?"

Gareth studied his charge, wondering whether this slip of a girl truly understood what she had just said. Her threat appeared to contradict Duncan's unusually overprotective request to keep the young Mage out of harm's way. Unless – and the thought hit him rather hard - old Duncan had meant not keep the lass protected from the wiles of a campful of lusty soldiers but protect this noble group of hardworking warriors from one _Mage_…Which led him to thinking how much damage one not-quite-grown Mage could do to hundreds of well-trained, battle-hardened and heavily armed soldiers. Turn them all into frogs? Clothes pegs? Perhaps if they just sent her into the Deep Roads, she could take care of the Darkspawn _before _they surfaced and the Blight would end there and then, the world would be saved all hunky dory and they could all go down to the pub for a celebratory drink or two.

_Come to think of it…_It wasn't as if the other two recruits were being chaperoned as well. _They_ had been told to 'settle in' and wait for Duncan's return then left to their own devices. Not that Gareth regretted that decision. Babysitting a pompous knight and a shady cutpurse would have been too much work in his opinion. There were only so many times a man could listen to another man talk for several hours about his wife's beautiful eyes _(yeah and bad eyesight…)._

As for the cutpurse; the nightly ritual of holding him upside down and giving him a good shake so as to dislodge the items he had stolen from them had fast become a chore.

Huh. And so_…_Escorting a pretty young lady about camp? Easy!

_So why do I feel like I'm crawlin' over cracking ice…?_ _With sharks circling below?_

His thoughts turned – thankfully - towards the lovely corporal he'd met by the Smithy earlier; the one who'd shown _particular_ interest in going over some…pre-battle 'strategy' with him. An activity that would have been far less risky to his bait and tackle than continuing to escort Duncan's little pet.

_Well…_Gareth cleared his throat. "True, true…" he said carefully, "you do seem like a capable young lady."

The Mage lass nodded in agreement, eyes sparkling confidently. It made Gareth's nervousness increase. "But…" He cleared his throat again. "We've barely covered half the King's camp…"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the shapely corporal he been thinking of walked past, catching his eye with a meaningful wink and he straightened with new decisiveness.

"Right well," he began to point in various directions. "Loghain's tent is there, King's tent's right next to it. Adjacent you'll find the kennels, Quartermaster, Ash Warriors – but you don't want to go bothering them – random elves, Chantry, Mess tent and…"

Gareth spied one of the other Wardens; another of Duncan's new acquisitions and his brain took an evil turn. The Warden, a pink-cheeked young ex-Chantry Initiate, strolled past the kennels; jumping as half a dozen Mabari simultaneously attempted to launch themselves at him through the wooden pickets of their enclosure. _Well…_Gareth's eyes slid back to the Mage. She'd been watching the activity around the General's tent and hadn't seen the mabari incident. _It'll be character building, I'm sure…_he reasoned_._

If the Mage got herself into trouble in his company, it would be _his_ neck Duncan would be after, but the Warden Commander hadn't specifically said that _he _had to be the one to look after her did he? And that new lad…trained as a Templar hadn't he? He'd be used to Mages and the like…Better him than say…Tolliver or Lester or Abley.

"Thank you Gareth." Merran spun slowly on the spot like a weathervane. "That was a most comprehensive list," she told him. "I think I can take it from here." The smile she bestowed was as brilliant as spring sunshine and Gareth's anxiety returned. A mere smile shouldn't have that effect from him, but his conscience kept poking him in uncomfortable places.

Gareth sighed, running his hand over his hairless scalp. "Look, miss…"

"Merran."

"…The Warden Commander may not have _specifically _said follow you around…" _to you, maybe…_"but I know exactly what he _meant._"

"You're terribly perceptive. I am impressed."

"I…" Gareth narrowed his eyes at her, but her bland expression revealed nothing indicating mockery on her part. He sighed. "Look," he told her, "just promise me you won't set anything on fire, or turn anyone into globular, sticky things…"

"Why, do you have a prejudice against globular things?" Merran asked with a small, disapproving frown.

"None at all," Gareth told her firmly. "We Wardens aren't particularly popular here is all I'm saying. And we're all trying to keep in good with the King and all…"

At mention of the King, Merran hung her head, remembering all too well how she'd embarrassed poor Duncan at her very first meeting with King Cailan. '_Holy Maker this laddo in the oversized planter box is the KING? Well I'll be a nug's uncle!' _is possibly not the most diplomatic way to greet one's ruling monarch after all.

As witness to this episode, Gareth had seen his life pass before his eyes as it never had facing countless Darkspawn. He had half expected Duncan's head to explode as a peace offering, but the young king had laughed the comment off, instead of ordering them all banished from the country…or worse.

"I promise I won't do any magic unless someone tells me to," Merran said meekly.

Gareth placed his hand on the Mage's head. _Ah…I suppose I can't expect some poor chit who's been locked up all her life to know any better…_"Your heart's in the right place lass," he told her. "But, look…in any case, you'll probably be given over to the junior Warden anyway."

"Junior Warden?"

"Sure, he's…" Gareth raised his eyes. His quarry had by now extricated himself from the mabari and was about to enter – providentially – the old Temple. "It's traditional," Gareth added. "The newer ones have the…Well they know what it's like to, uh…" He couldn't tell her about the Joining. Not yet. Duncan's head would _really _explode, never mind comments from green young Mages in the King's presence…"His name's Alistair," Gareth spoke quickly. "Tall lad, can't miss him. He'll be able to instruct you in, um…think I saw him heading towards the old Temple yonder. Historic place that, if you're interested."

"Historic?" Merran echoed, wide-eyed.

"Yes. Good for the uh…uh…"

"History?" Merran suggested helpfully.

"Yes! That! And you haven't been to the old Temple yet have you? Can't miss that! Highlight of the camp. Everyone says so."

Merran smiled sunnily. "Oh, well if _everyone_ says so, then I'll have a look."

"Y-yes…" Gareth tried not to wince. He really did.

"And find Junior Warden Alistair?" Merran cocked her head to the side, like a curious Spaniel.

"Alistair," Gareth confirmed. "That's him."

"So I can get him to instruct me in 'um' and stuff?"

"Now you're just being mean."

"Sorry."

"Well," Gareth rubbed the back of his head. Conversation with young Merran was exhausting, he was finding. "You'll like him." _Chatty, that one is…if you can get a word in edgewise. _"Little bit awkward around the ladies, but ladies like that sort of thing, I suppose."

"Do they?" Merran blinked at him.

"Well, they…it…" Gareth's shoulders slumped. "You're a lady, aren't you? Wouldn't you know?"

"Me?" Merran blinked at him again. "I'm just a Mage."

"Ah well…" She really wasn't going to make it easy for him, was she?

"Temple?" she pointed at the large, ruined structure tucked under the encroaching forest to their right. Thinking this had taken far too long; and too many years off his life, Gareth nodded.

"Temple," he said.

"No magic?" she added

"No magic," he confirmed, hoping his tone of voice had been stern enough.

She smiled and turned towards the old Temple. Gareth watched her for a couple of minutes then resolutely headed in the opposite direction. Try as he might, he could not dispel the urge to strain his ears for terrified screaming behind him. It was going to be alright…_sure…_figuring as long as he kept telling himself that very thing, it might somehow be true.

-oo-

"…I will speak to the woman _if _I must. Out of my way fool!"

Merran's approach to the moss-crusted ramp coincided with Senior Enchanter Pauldry's descent of it. He startled at her appearance, almost recognising her, but dismissing the thought as soon as it appeared as unimportant. Merran on the other hand, was quite familiar with the Senior Mage, suppressing the urge to salute. It was a bit like that around the Senior Enchanter. Like the urge to tuck in their shirts and spit-smooth their hair whenever Senior Enchanter Wynne was spotted heading their way...

A couple of steps later however, the Senior Enchanter appeared to change his mind. He turned slowly.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes at her. "Aren't you're that young man's friend? The whiny one?"

Merran's hands clenched at her sides. "His name is Jowan," she told him evenly. "And yes he's my friend."

"You want to be careful with that one," Pauldry scowled at her. "It's the whiny ones who always end up turning to blood magic, mark my words."

Merran smiled sweetly at him and he backed away, scowl deepening. She watched him pass under the Temple's arches, glad that her exposure to the Senior Enchanter had only involved the odd Herbalism class whenever Senior Enchanter Ines was away on one of her field jaunts.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Merran swung around at the new voice. Still annoyed at Pauldy, she sniffed, "Really? Personally, I thought it ripped people apart, made families homeless, destroyed farmland and livestock and left women widows and children orphans."

"Uh ha…"

She heard him laugh self-consciously and as he came towards her, Merran had a better opportunity to see whether this was the junior Warden Gareth had mentioned. He was certainly tall as described…But didn't that include everyone else in the camp?

For instance, if Gareth had told her to look for someone…_brown _then this man would be it. Nondescript brown hair…murky brownish eyes…brown armour that looked like it had seen less brown days…Even his voice sounded…brown. And the single eyebrow that curved above one of his brown eyes was also brown. In fact, there was so much brown about him that mentioning the word in her head so many times made her forget completely what colour it described.

The young Warden however, was attempting at that very moment to suppress his disappointment. When Duncan had mentioned in his last letter that he'd be bringing a new recruit from Lake Calenhad, he'd had hopes that individual might for once be someone his age. Someone he could hang out with and discuss manly things with…compare cheese recipes even. It never occurred to him that the recruit might be…female…and were those…_Mage robes…?_ And…why was she looking at him like that? As though he was an interesting insect on the end of her finger? Any moment there would be a squishing noise and spurt of horrible goo.

Her gaze swept him critically from head to foot then; "You have very big hands," she told him.

He startled. "Huh?" Automatically, his hands flew upwards. They looked perfectly _normal-_sized to him. "I do not!"

"Yeah, you do," she insisted. To his mortification, she snagged one of his hands and placed her own small one up against it. As the top of her head barely reached the underside of his shoulder, he wasn't surprised at the size difference…unless she was some kind of big-handed freak…and since when did random women just grab a man's hand like that? It was unseemly, surely. There'd been no formal introduction, no 'how do you do', just…_oh your hands are freakishly large…_!

"Hm," she told him thoughtfully, "People always tell me I have man-hands," while his ears turned sunset red. "But look at yours…" she added. "_Enormous_! How'd you get such big hands anyway?"

_What did she mean 'how'd they get that way?'_ "They…they just _grew_ that way!" he protested. "And I do _not _have big hands."

"Yeah. You do."

"Well! Can I have it _back_ please?"

"Huh?" Her face tipped upwards, her expression turning apologetic as she realised how embarrassed her _manhandling _of his man-hands was making him. "Sorry…"

Then her head angled to the right, causing every other spare inch of him that wasn't already the colour of an overripe tomato to burn brighter than the inside of the sun. "You…uh…eh…" Apparently, that included his tongue.

"I'm Merran by the way!" she said so suddenly, he took a step backwards. Ingrained manners prompted him to return the exchange of his own name, but he was reluctant to do so, just in case she used it to fuel some kind of spell to destroy his soul or something horribly Mage-ish like that.

"Oooooooo…kay…" he drawled, clasping his hands firmly behind his back.

"You're Alistair, I presume?" She took a step forwards. Alistair took a wary step back. "Gareth said you'd be here and…" she cast a look about. "As there appears to be no one else in the vicinity…"

"I'm um…Might be."

"Wonderful."

_Wait…why did she say it like that? Like she'd just been asked to rip her heart out and eat it? And…_Duncan's words came back to him then; about _cooperation _and trying to get on with everyone and his offence at her hand accusation dissipated. He sighed.

"Merran…" he murmured. "Duncan hadn't mentioned the name, but…you're the new recruit? From Lake Calenhad?" _Please say no. Please say no._

"Yes. I am"

_Damn._

"So I suppose…I'll be accompanying you as you prepare for your Joining," Alistair sighed again. "As junior member of the Order." _Curse it all!_

"Yeah, got that from Gareth," she said in such a bored tone of voice, Alistair felt his indignation rise anew.

"And the other two recruits?" Alistair frowned. "Have you met them yet? Ser Jory and Daveth?"

"We have been formally introduced. Yes," she told him, drilling him with a keen look that made him wonder whether he'd remembered to change his smallclothes this morning and then _why _that was suddenly so important.

"Well then," Alistair said, now at a loss. He'd let the others question him about the Wardens, happy to pass on any information about the Order that he could. With this strange…female however, Alistair was not too sure. Would telling her to 'pick his brains' cause her to take him literally? He wouldn't put it past this odd little…thing…recruit Mage…whatever she was…

He decided to simply move the conversation along. "Now that you're here, we can begin preparations."

"Preparations," she repeated, still giving him that uncomfortable, expectant look.

"Preparations," he confirmed.

A long awkward silence stretched between them. Except for the wind rustling the leaves of the forest behind it was so quiet, Alistair could hear a Warden slowly strangling himself to death by Mage in an abandoned Tevinter Temple…Unable to bear the horrible silence any longer, Alistair clapped his hands together, "So I guess we should…"

"Your name _is _Alistair right?" she interrupted him. "Because you haven't said. I mean I've had the common decency to introduce myself whereas…"

"_Yes! My name is ALISTAIR!_" he yelled so loudly, some of the rock crumbled from the arch above them. His bellow unsurprisingly was met with a disgruntled pout.

"Typical," she muttered darkly. "I guess it's true what they say about men with big hands..."

"What…_what_ do they say?" he heard himself ask.

"That they have big mouths," she informed him primly; and turned her back on him.

It wasn't a good start.

-oo-

Alistair rubbed at tired eyes. He'd had to see Merran to her own tent after supper. The others had retired too but he didn't feel much like sleeping at the moment, choosing to warm himself by the Wardens' immense fire instead. After a short while he spied Duncan sitting on the other side; back against a pillar and the usual writing board in his lap. Sheets of parchment were scattered around him, reminding Alistair that the Darkspawn weren't the only things a Commander of the Grey had to deal with. There was _paperwork _as well.

He needed to speak to Duncan about the new recruit.

She wasn't going to work out. Not that Alistair was an expert in these sorts of things but…And not for the first time did he wish that he'd been recruited not just six months ago, but six months and nine years ago…though he supposed ten year old Grey Wardens might be stretching it a bit. Still, that _Mage…_

"Something on your mind Alistair?"

He startled at the Warden Commander's voice, so deeply immersed in his own, unhappy thoughts.

"Not…not really…" Alistair lied.

Duncan smiled. "You've been keeping Merran company I see," the older Warden added approvingly. "I am glad to see the two of you getting on so well."

Alistair choked on a mosquito; a whole swarm of them because it couldn't have possibly been the thought that he was 'getting on' with that _Mage _that was sticking in his maw.

He found a waterskin tossed over the fire to him. Alistair snatched it out of the air and after a hearty drink sputtered, "Getting on? Duncan, are you _sure_ about her?"

Engaged in taking another mouthful of water, Alistair did not see Duncan throw him a sharp look.

"She's a very talented mage," Duncan told him.

"She's one Archdemon short of a Blight!" Alistair blurted without thinking. "Living in that tower with only Mages and Templars for company has made her…I don't know…_insane_?" Not to mention…_possessed _which, considering his experience so far with Mages was quite feasible.

Duncan set his writing board and stylus beside him, regarding the – clearly annoyed – Warden on the other side of the flames. "Alistair…" he began.

"And she has the taint, right?" Alistair's frown deepened. "How…how is that even possible?"

Duncan shrugged. "I believe she was born with it."

The younger Warden's eyes widened in disbelief; "Then…but how old is she? I didn't think it was possible to…_Is_ it possible for someone to survive the Darkspawn taint for more than a few months?" _Or even weeks?_

"I am not sure." Duncan stared thoughtfully into the fire, the dancing flames shifting the craggy planes of his face restlessly. "Perhaps her magic has kept the taint at bay…If that is the case…" His hanging sentence conjured possibilities in Alistair's head that the younger Warden didn't want conjured. _More Mages…_was one of them…when they hadn't even tested the _one _yet.

The fair-minded part of Alistair reminded him that there had been Grey Warden Mages before; long before Merran Amell. And Duncan had for so long tried to recruit from the Circle but had for one reason or another been unable to do so. Being able to recruit Merran this time around was a lifetime's worth of Satinalia gifts.

"She was not born during a Blight." Duncan's forehead crinkled as he continued to think out loud. "That may also be a contributing factor. As to being _possible…_That she has survived to this age is proof that it _is_ possible."

"But you've never heard of this happening before?" Alistair asked. "What about the other Wardens? Weisshaupt…?"

"Well, there is a great deal that I do not know, Alistair," the Warden Commander conceded. Indicating his writing board, he added, "And I intend to make as much use of the collective knowledge at Weisshaupt as possible. At the very least, the First Warden should be made aware."

_Made aware…? _Alistair pondered the statement, feeling suddenly – and oddly – fearful for the young Mage. Giving himself a shake, he banished the thought. If Merran was quite happy treating _him _like something to be studied and dissected then the Clevers at Weisshaupt were welcome to do the same to her.

"Wait," Alistair blinked wood smoke from his eyes. "You said she was _born _with the taint? That would mean she…that she…"

"One of her parents was tainted and passed it on to her, yes."

Alistair hunched. He knew Merran Amell was newly Harrowed. Which put her age somewhere between seventeen to nineteen years of age. Young, but not much younger than himself. It meant that sometime, seventeen to nineteen years ago a Grey Warden still capable of fathering a child…a _fresh _Grey Warden who'd just undergone their Joining…did…had…with a…His eyes turned involuntarily towards the Warden Commander.

"I have known every Grey Warden in Ferelden for the last…almost twenty years, Alistair…" Duncan's voice causing the younger Warden to shrink even more. "And there were few Wardens in the country when I was conscripted. Any one of my contemporaries could be her father, I imagine."

_Oh Maker, _Alistair pleaded silently. _Please don't say it._

"Including myself."

Alistair refused to look at Duncan. Refused to acknowledge the words had been spoken. The thought that the Warden Commander might be Merran's father sent a sharp jab of jealousy through him. _How could someone like _that_ be related to Duncan?_ _She doesn't look anything like him, or sound like him…and she's a Mage. That's inherited. Plus she's completely and utterly out of her tree…_

His fair-minded half emerged again, reminding him that anyone who had lived with Darkspawn whispering in their heads all their lives was bound to be a tad unhinged. And…given the average lifespan of a Grey Warden…How long would someone like Merran have left? Five or ten years if she was lucky? Then there was the Blight to consider. Alistair knew full well that Wardens who joined during a Blight had even shorter lives. Ser Jory and Daveth might be years older than Merran, but the chances of her meeting her Calling so much earlier were higher than either man.

He wondered what the Joining would do to someone already tainted for so long. Was there any point? Was whatever sustaining her for so long akin to undergoing a Joining anyway? Why waste precious resources when they could just…? And it wasn't as if she showed any _interest _in the Grey Wardens anyway.

Here _he _was, a Grey Warden barely six months old and he wanted to know everything there was to know about being the best possible Grey Warden he could _ever_ be. Merran…she'd just looked _bored _and uncaring about it all. Did she realise how much of an honour Duncan had bestowed on her? On any of them?

"It can't have been easy for her," Duncan's gentle voice jolted Alistair out of his slowly simmering resentment. "Remember that."

He heard the words. Understood them. Yet Alistair could help it. If he hadn't disliked the Mage on sight before, he was certainly beginning to loathe her now.

-oo-


	5. And Then He Exploded

As always, thanks to all the wonderful people who have taken the time to read this and especially to those who've sent reviews. You're _awesome_.

This chapter involves goo.

-oo-

**Chapter 5 – And Then He Exploded**

_He's angry at me…again._

"She had the most beautiful eyes. It was love at first sight."

_So what have I done _now_ to poop him off?_

"I was given special permission to stay in Highever so we could get married."

_I mean, it's not like we've even spoken today – _and_ I've saved his life twice!_

"I've been trying to convince Helena to move to Redcliffe. We'd have a good life there."

_Is he mad about that maybe?_

"I still have family there and with the baby coming, Helena will have plenty of doting helpers."

_Is he one of these men that hate having women rescue them? Is that it?_

"Of course, we all have to survive the Blight first, don't we?"

"Irritating man…!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Wha…?" Merran looked guiltily at her companion. "Oh I don't mean you Ser Jory."

Ser Jory raised his eyesbrows inquiringly, but did not comment further, allowing Merran to resume her attempt to stare a hole into the back of the Grey Warden's armour. Alistair had been assigned to escort all three of them into the Korcari Wilds. They were to collect Darkspawn blood and try to find a cache of misplaced, ancient Grey Warden treaties. Even before the four of them entered the Wilds, the junior Warden pointedly maintained a distance from her. _Childish…_Merran thought sourly at his splintmail-clad back. Childish, despite the _wolf incident _earlier.

If not for Merran's quick thinking and her timely spellcasting, Alistair would be nothing more than a wolf snack by now. And yet he'd made it seem as though it had been _her _fault that the wolves had surprised them; _her _fault that he'd lost his footing on slimy bogweed and became an easy target for the pack leader. _Her _fault that he'd lost his sword in the marsh…and _her _fault also that he'd been nearly swallowed whole by the large toothy creature that lunged out of the water at him while he'd been hunting too close to the water's edge for his stupid sword…and the whole while she'd continued to heal and rejuvenate them as they went on.

Not that he _thanked _her or anything…_Maker forbid._

"Over here!" Daveth's voice jolted Merran out of her unhappy thoughts. He'd found a soldier; badly injured but no less determined to return to the King's camp.

"Here…" Merran knelt beside the soldier, healing gashes while Daveth helped the man gulp a few grateful mouthfuls of water. There were broken bones; injuries that were outside Merran's talents, but when Ser Jory offered to escort the soldier back to Ostagar, he declined stubbornly, scrambling unsteadily to his feet and stumbling towards the bleached-bone stone of the Ostagar ruins still visible from here.

As it turned out, Ser Jory's offer to escort the soldier back to the camp had not been mere altruism. The encounter had shaken the Redcliffe Knight severely. If an entire patrol of seasoned soldiers could be overwhelmed, what chance did the four of them have?

"D-Did you see him?" Ser Jory stuttered, long after the soldier had disappeared into the swamps. "And those bodies…? They didn't have arms, or…"

"There is a _reason_ that I am here," Alistair told him – told them all – with a sour look towards Merran. "There's little chance of the Darkspawn surprising us, believe me."

"Ah," Daveth commented sagely after sharing a dubious look with the Mage. "Grey Warden magic. I shoulda known…"

Rolling his eyes at them, Alistair continued on. Ser Jory, not convinced in the least however, became even more jittery in their surroundings. And seeing as the only Grey Warden in their group appeared to be no help at all, Merran took it upon herself to try and calm her fellow recruit, encouraging him to keep talking. The Darkspawn did not unnerve her as much as it seemed the trained knight; and they had as yet to meet any…

"Have you encountered Darkspawn before?" Merran asked him, sorting through her store of spells in her head and unable to find one for Calm. Ser Jory's eyes bugged at the question.

"No," he admitted hoarsely. "Have you?"

Merran nodded. "We encountered some on our trip from Lake Calenhad," she informed him.

"And are they as horrific as they say?" Ser Jory's gaze darted into the tangled vegetation around them. "I mean…"

"They're ugly and they smell," Merran told him with a smile. "And they don't take you by surprise as much as you would think," she added. "Something that smells that bad, you'd _definitely_ know about before you saw them."

"And you fought them?" Ser Jory asked, his voice beginning to shed some of its edginess. "Were they difficult to…take down?"

Merran chuckled. She pointed to the massive greatsword strapped to his back. "_That_; coming from a person wielding one of _those_? You could probably take a couple of heads off before I had time to cast a spell and that's saying something. I'm pretty quick."

Her efforts at distracting him were rewarded; the corner of his mouth crooked upwards in a wry smile. "I hope that doesn't mean I'll have to keep rescuing you in that case," he told her.

Merran responded by lowering herself into a dainty curtsey, "What girl doesn't want to be rescued by a knight in shining armour?"

"Will the two of you stop mucking about and pay attention?" Alistair's voice snapped from the front. "This isn't exactly a walk in a flowery meadow, you know. You can chat _after_ we've completed our tasks."

After he'd turned back, Merran glowered at him, hastily suppressing the spell for the Stinging Swarm that sprang to her lips. Couldn't he _see_ Jory was afraid? Did he care? While she admitted that they all had to deal with the fear of Darkspawn eventually, surely at some point in time he had been the same? And she could bet whomever he had been with at the time had been a little more compassionate than he was being right now. He was angry at her; she _understood_ that. But being Warden Grumpy Grumblepants wasn't going to make her go away. _Stupid Grey Warden_!

When Ser Jory spoke to her next, it was in a lowered voice. "Have the two of you had some kind of disagreement?" he asked. "His behaviour to you has been most ungallant."

_Ungallant…?_ Merran had been about to reply when Alistair's shout of 'Darkspawn!' had them reaching for their weapons. Ser Jory drew his broadsword with a loud screech of scraping steel. Barely a heart beat went by before Darkspawn exploded from the earth around them and then they just…_exploded_.

Nearby, there was a shout of disgusted anger. Alistair, covered in the gooey, stringy remains of the inside of the monsters, advanced on Merran, seething.

"_Maker's breath_, woman!" he bellowed at her. "You could have warned me!"

From behind the group, Daveth stifled a chuckle. The light-footed thief had sprung to the rear with his bow and arrow. Ser Jory had been behind Merran's spirit shield, but Alistair had been in the thick of the exploding Darkspawn. As he berated the Mage, a thick blob of stinking slime plopped from his hair to his shoulder and Daveth's laughter could no longer be restrained.

Bestowing a final, warning glare on the Mage, Alistair turned on his heel, his dignity as shredded as the Darkspawn.

Merran found Ser Jory's politely modulated voice in her ear. "You do realise," he began. "Attacks such as this may make extracting blood a bit difficult."

Merran's eyebrows drew downwards, her gaze following the passage of the junior Warden darkly. "Who said I was aiming at the Darkspawn?" she gritted.

Ser Jory took an involuntary step backwards, murmuring "Ah…"

"Spell ahoy!" Merran exclaimed abruptly as the ground spewed forth a fresh wave of Hurlocks and Genlocks.

Distracted by his anger; and annoyance at the sound of Merran's voice, Alistair raised his sword too late, missing the tell-tale trail of ice as a freezing spell shot towards him. Merran's fireball met the hurtling snowstorm midair, spraying the Grey Warden with heated water before he did something that made the Mage Darkspawn stumble. Merran blinked in surprise, turning towards the Darkspawn in time to see one of Daveth's arrows strike the creature square between its eyes. Engaged in conjuring several more fireballs, Merran vaguely noted Ser Jory had taken her comment to heart, his heavy blade sweeping through Darkspawn in wide arcs and gouts of spurting blood.

Alistair recovered quickly, shaking the gore from his head and carving into the Darkspawn with ferocious determination, his blood-streaked face grim. After the battle was over, the Grey Warden carefully extracted three vials worth of blood from the scattered Darkspawn, wrapping them individually in soft cloth and stowing them in his belt pouch. Now that the first task had been completed an expectant silence fell on the party, broken only by Daveth mentioning casually that they should consult Duncan's map. With the sun reaching the noonday position, Daveth was keen to find the treaties in good time to return to camp before nightfall.

"Fine," Alistair agreed, flicking his gauntlets with an annoyed air. "Who has the map?"

Merran cleared her throat. "It's in my…"

"Well hand it over then."

"_Here_," Daveth stepped between Mage and Grey Warden, hand held in the universal gesture. "_Peace_ you two," he told them both. "I'm sorry your coif got a little mussed Grey Warden," he told Alistair. "But personally speakin', I wouldn't mind bein' splattered with the Darkspawn's dinner if it meant I wasn't going to _be _their dinner."

"I agree," Ser Jory added, stepping up to stand on the other side of the Mage. "I don't know why you're so angry at the poor girl; she's done more good than harm to us." Turning to Merran, he said kindly. "I know you've been healing us. Thank you Lady Mage."

Alistair's cheeks coloured visibly under his sopping fringe of Darkspawn goop. The Mage looked deeply uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. Tiny in comparison to Daveth and Ser Jory, Alistair's better nature berated him for his behaviour. He had been brought up to be better than this; and he had been charged with being responsible for their wellbeing by Duncan. Yet here he was; being pulled up for being a bullying, ungrateful prat.

He hadn't even noticed the healing…

"It's all right, you two." Merran said in a soft, embarrassed voice. Dropping the small pack from her shoulder, she began unbuckling the straps. "You don't need to defend me. I'm a big girl."

"_You_, big?" Daveth scoffed good-naturedly. "I think I've stepped on _grasshoppers_ bigger than you."

Merran's cheeks dimpled; Alistair realising with a shock…_s__he has his smile…_

Chuckling at the Thief, Merran located Duncan's map, extending it towards Alistair. When he made no move to take it, Daveth retrieved the document with a shake of his head.

"I do have to admit though," he added, unfurling the parchment, "I've as yet to meet a grasshopper that can fry my eyeballs just as soon as look at me…Now…" He tossed a quizzical look towards the still-silent Grey Warden. "Moving on…what's this say? Are we any closer to this Grey Warden treasure Duncan mentioned? I'm looking forward to a nice warm fire and an indigestible meal back at the camp soon."

"Not far, if I am reading this correctly." Ser Jory joined the other man in studying the faded lines and confusing notations. He transferred his gaze from the parchment to their surroundings. "Look there," he pointed beyond Alistair's shoulder. "That ridge yonder. Those ruined arches could very well be the structure the map makes reference to."

Daveth squinted between the stylised shapes drawn on the elderly parchment and the pile of mossy stone. "I see it. That nobbly bit next to the wiggle and what looks like a bit of dried up egg. Tevinters can't have been very practical folk, building on a marsh. Must have been very good swimmers."

"Whatever the intepretation," Ser Jory frowned, "we should investigate the area. I too would prefer it if we locate our quarry as soon as possible. The thought of spending a night in these Wilds fills me with dread."

"Rather than the slop the army cooks serve up?" Daveth teased the knight. His expression turned grim as he surveyed the grimy landscape. "Well, I know which _I'd _prefer."

-oo-

The scrolls…were _gone._ The party found the remains of a compound of sorts, a line of broken stone indicating at one stage the entire area had been enclosed like a fort. In the centre, on a worn incline they located another ruin, more Darkspawn and an empty chest bearing the Grey Warden symbol of the rearing Griffon. Worse was the realisation that the party had ventured so far into the Wilds that the return trip – without the scrolls – would take them well into the night. It was disheartening to say the least, Daveth taking out his frustration on the crumbling wood and metal of the old chest.

"Well, this was a bit of a wasted trip…" he grumbled gloomily, aiming another kick to the pile. "What do we do now?"

"A _most _interesting question..."

All four of them startled at the same time at the voice, heads swivelling until the owner was located perched upon a low wall, like a curious crow. There was something definitely bird of prey-like about the…woman, from the black-dyed layers of her half-skirt to the spray of feathers adorning a single shoulder. And when she descended from her high vantage point to circle the party it could be seen quite clearly that she was possessed of a sharp pair of hawklike eyes. Each felt as though they were being weighed up for edibility.

"I have been watching you for some time…" the woman drawled in a voice both mocking and too old for the smooth, white angles of her face. "Where do they go, I wondered? What do they seek?

"Are they vultures perhaps; scavengers poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely intruders; come into these Darkspawn-filled wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" Her eye fell lastly upon Alistair, speculative as a squirrel trying to figure out how to open a nut. Her mouth twisted as she realised what his 'adornments' might possibly consist of. She turned then to the others.

"What say you, hm?" she demanded. "Scavenger or intruder?"

Before any of them could speak, Merran raised her hand. "Ooh! Ooh! Can I answer this? Can I?" Cupping her hands around her face, she angled towards Ser Jory, hissing, "I think that when I grow up, I want to be just like her."

Ser Jory blinked. Keeping his arms firmly at his sides, he stared straight ahead. The top half of the newcomer's garments left very little to the imagination and he was determined not to ogle, being a newly-married man.

Merran's words had not been missed by the woman. She pinned Merran with a yellow-eyed gaze that was even more contemplative than the one she bestowed upon Alistair.

"Uh…Me…Ma…" Alistair shuffled sideways, unsure how to address Merran and feeling stupid for it. It was fine calling the other two men by their given names, but the Mage was a…well, a _girl._ And girls – as well as Mages – were funny about that sort of thing…which brought him back with a thud to the mystery woman. He had his suspicions, clapping a slimed hand on the Mage's shoulder before she could continue.

"Don't answer her," Alistair warned hoarsely "She looks Chasind; and there may be others nearby."

"Bu…!" Merran protested out the side of her mouth. "Who knew the Chasind had such lovely diction? Maferath's toasting fork, have you heard anything so perfectly pronounced?"

The woman at the centre of this debate merely raised a single eyebrow on an alabaster pale forehead. She shifted her attention to the soldier in the smelly mail. "Why…do you expect barbarians to swoop down upon you?" she sneered.

_Barbarians…? _Alistair thought this over very carefully. No. If his suspicions were correct, barbarians might be the least of their problems…

Shifting slightly to stand a little in front of Merran, he told the woman: "Yes…swooping…is…bad…" It was a statement that he immediately regretted, if Merran's irritating giggle was any measure of its weight. He chanced a look at the Mage, wondering what the _Fade _was making her so happy. _Why is she enjoying this? _The statuesque Wilder woman was giving _him _the heebie-jeebies.

"Well then," the woman folded her arms under her breasts. If they hadn't been obvious before, they certainly made themselves known now; Ser Jory now looking everywhere but_ at_ her.

"Shall I guess your purpose?" the woman asked. "You sought something in that chest; something that is here no longer."

""Here no longer'?" Alistair exclaimed. After claiming the entire swamp as her _own, _he could bet she and whatever tribe, clan, whatever had been rifling through Grey Warden property since…since _forever…_He jabbed an accusing finger at her. "I bet you _stole _them, you…sneaky…witch-thief!"

Merran – curse her – giggled again. "That was just the worst thing _anyone _could have said Alistair!" Slapping her thigh, her giggles turned into guffaws. "Maker, you _kill _me."

A change of pace came in Daveth's voice. "Be careful what you say, the both of you. This is a Witch of the Wilds. She'll turn us all into toads."

"Aw, no need for her to do that, Daveth," Merran grinned at him. "I can do it for her…Except you know, I always end up with leftovers." Her accompanying chuckle for that statement was almost evil as she added: "And I never know _quite _what to do with them!"

Stepping out in front of Alistair, Merran held out her hand. "Helloo…! I'm Merran the Grey Warden Recruit. How'd you do? Love your staff by the way. Is it lyrium-enhanced? Avvar symbols aren't they? Except I don't quite recognise the _exact _combination. Mine's just sylvan-wood, with a core of red-lyrium…quite whippy…Standard Circle issue, everyone gets them. Most of us start carving them straight away 'cos they're useless otherwise…Do you do all your own carving? And sewing? Fantastic feathers! How'd you keep them so _dry_? I'm _useless _at sewing. Baking now. Baking I'm really great a…"

"We're looking for the scrolls and we'd really appreciate it if you can tell us who might have them!" Alistair interrupted in a sudden shout that made them all jump in surprise. In the intervening silence under the disconcerting stare of four pairs of eyes, he added with more calm and a great deal more chagrin: "If you _know_…that is."

The woman harrumphed. "I do…as it happens," she told them, raising her chin to stare down the length of her shapely nose at him. "The magic preserving the contents of this chest wore off years ago," she added haughtily. "My _mother_ has been protecting them all this time."

_Ah…_Grabbing a handful of the Mage robe, Alistair firmly pushed Merran behind him again. "Well, uh…In that case we'd appreciate it if you would direct us to your, uh…_mother._"

The woman appeared to consider the Grey Warden's words carefully, her eyes narrowing at his mimicry of her own pronunciation of 'mother'. After a short space of time, she shrugged a shoulder.

"You may call me Morrigan, if you must," she told them, adding; "Follow me. I will take you to my mother."

-oo-

"_Maker's breath…!_" Alistair buried his face in his hands. He didn't think it was possible to be this tired and this glad to be _alive_ before. "I thought we'd _never_ make it back."

Eager to examine the scrolls for damage, Duncan had not noticed the…_smell_ until now…and now that he had, his eyes began to water. It was like having an ogre's loincloth stuffed up his nostrils and he looked about, trying to locate the source of the foul stench. As Alistair was the only other person in the vicinity – the others having gone towards the meals tent – there was only one conclusion he could draw.

"Alistair," he scowled at the young Grey Warden. "Did you fall into the swamp?" Despite the darkness, the Warden Commander noticed the horrible, purplish lumps stuck to various parts of the other Warden's armour and his eyes narrowed. The three recruits as far as he could remember had returned intact and relatively clean. What had Alistair been up to?

"Oh, uh…Fall? Nooo…" The edge to the young man's voice indicated something far, far worse than being vomited on by an entire pack of Blight wolves with dysentery. Duncan began edging away as Alistair appeared to scrape something from his shoulder, holding it up for inspection. "Ew. That's really disgusting."

"I agree," Duncan replied, taking another step further away. "Do you think a bath…?"

"Oh, there you are!"

Alistair squeaked, flinching visibly at Merran's arrival. Duncan frowned at the encounter, throwing the junior Grey Warden a look of reproach that the young man entirely missed, being too busy attempting to evade the Mage.

"You disappeared into the camp so fast, I couldn't see where you'd gone." Merran was smiling up at Alistair in a way that was making him even more uncomfortable. And then she was holding out something for him. "Here."

_For the second time _since he'd met her_,_ she grabbed his hand and placed a small whitish lump in it, atop a neat square of some kind of material.

"I stopped by the Mages' tents and got this for you," she explained sheepishly. "It's soap!"

Alistair looked at the pile in his hand as though it might spontaneously combust. He was unsure whether to be relieved or really offended. Did she have to point out what a state he was in? Honestly, what kind of person would _do_ that?

"It's my…apology for the um…" _Oh…_that _kind of person…_"I thought you might like some help with the Darkspawn, uh…Daveth mentioned it was really difficult to get the smell out and the soap is…well it's enchanted, you see…" When she peered up at him from under her eyelashes, for the umpteenth time that day Alistair felt like a cad. It wasn't a feeling he was particularly comfortable with.

Oddly, her little speech delivered, Merran gave a small, satisfied nod, then turned and almost _fled._ _Why? Because it's her way of telling me to hurry up and stop being rank, disgusting and foul-smelling? _

"She likes you," Duncan's voice jolted him back to the present, approval clear in his voice. "I am glad the two of you are getting along so well. Merran will make a wonderful addition to our Order don't you think?"

_Getting along?_ Alistair gaped at him. Like_ me…?_ _Maker forbid! That insane woman _liking_ me is NOT a good thing!_ he wanted to scream at Duncan. _I think I would rather dance the Remigold on the General's dining table wearing nothing but a sparkly pair of red slippers than…_His shoulders slumped. Duncan hadn't been looking at him in any case. He'd been beaming across the camp at Merran talking animatedly with that cutpurse.

"Well," he murmured. "I'll just go and…jump in the lake, shall I?"

Duncan chuckled. "That might be a good idea, Alistair."

"Thanks…" With nothing left to say, Alistair turned and trudged towards the enclosure's gates.

-oo-

On the other side of the clearing, Merran watched Alistair from the corner of her eye. If anything he looked even more unhappy with her peace offering than before. Had she done the right thing? After that little 'talk' with Daveth, she had decided to apologise. She was the newcomer after all…She didn't want to start out with the Grey Wardens with a reputation for being a troublemaker, especially after she'd been so determined to make as good a representation of the Circle as possible. And…she had to admit, not warning Alistair about that particular spell beforehand _had_ been spite on her part.

She just didn't know what she had done to put him offside in the first place…

_Is it the Mage thing…_she wondered? She recalled that thing he had done in the Wilds to that Darkspawn who could do magic. _That felt like a Templar counterspell…_But there couldn't be a Templar in the Grey Wardens. Could there? The Chantry didn't give their secrets up to _anyone._

"He really doesn't like you, does he?" Daveth sighed, following the direction of her gaze with a shake of his head. "You're pretty scary with those spells of yours, but did you spit on his grandmother's grave or sommat? He doesn't seem to have a problem with either Jory or me."

All Merran had to offer in response was a shrug.

"Some folk take issue with people of a magic bent, I suppose…" Daveth continued to speculate, scratching the side of his nose, "but from what I've been hearing, old Duncan's been trying to get the Circle to let him recruit Mages for an age. I thought all these Grey Wardens would be grateful."

Merran shrugged again. _Duncan _may have wanted to recruit Mages, she added in her head, but clearly it was without gaining Alistair's opinion first…_That was a Templar thing…I _know_ it…!_ The junior Warden just didn't fit the Templar mold…Not that living with Templars for nearly eighteen years of her life made her an expert by any means.

_Oh, I don't want to think about this anymore!_

Casting her gaze about for a distraction, she noticed the object being clutched in Daveth's hand. It appeared to be a flower of some sort. Grateful for the change in topic, she pointed to it. "A flower?" she said. "Are you going courting again?"

"Well spotted, Miss Mage," Daveth grinned, happy enough to be on a more amiable subject of discussion. "In this case, I'm courting mabari; nothing kinky now," he added mock-sternly. "I overheard the kennel master saying he'd pay good coin if someone could bring back one of these. _Medicinal_, he said. Seems one of his best hounds got a little too much Darkspawn blood down him. Taints them, Darkspawn blood does, just like people."

"Taint?" Merran asked with a frown, remembering Duncan mentioning that word at the Tower.

"…kills them," Daveth's words washed over her. "A slow and painful death by all accounts. So I can't imagine what the Grey Wardens are going to do with that blood we collected out in the Wilds…" He lowered his voice, casting a wary look about them. "One of the king's soldiers told me Darkspawn blood burns you from the inside out…if it doesn't turn you into some kind of walking ghoul in the end."

"Ghoul…" Merran repeated, frowning anew at the flower.

"Anyhoo, feel like coming along for a looksee?" Daveth reached out with the flower and rapped the top of her head lightly with it. "Might pass the time until this ritual of the Grey Wardens'." His eyes flicked briefly towards a nearby raised podium, facing a row of logs arranged like chairs. Ser Jory could be seen there, standing amongst some others; head bent in prayer while an orange-garbed Sister of the Chantry recited the words of _The Chant of Light_. "Better'n being devout, yeah?" Daveth suggested. "Less disappointment that way, I think."

Unable to sort the thoughts in her head into something organised, Merran decided to give up for now. Scraping together a pleasant smile she nodded. "Sure, why not?"

-oo-


	6. Anywhere But Here

I can't keep saying thank you enough to the lovely and sweet and wonderful people that send reviews – yes, you, you and _you._ Thank you, thank you, thank you! The time taken out of your very busy lives to send a comment are very much appreciated and make me strive to try and keep entertaining you…if only for a little bit.

-oo-

**Chapter 6 – Anywhere But Here**

Merran stood at the edge of the ruin amidst the muted activity of the camp, waiting for the noise in her head to abate until barely a whisper and the great-grandmother of all headaches were left behind. The Warden Commander had barely glanced at her, advising her quietly to take a short rest and collect her thoughts before joining him in a meeting with the King.

Except Merran didn't want to 'collect' her thoughts. She wanted to hurl them away, bury them deep in the ground or rip them permanently from her memory…Memories of Daveth's screams of agony; his hands clawing bloody lines across his face, eyes rolling back into his head as the Darkspawn blood burned him from the inside out. Or the memory of Ser Jory; awkwardly drawing his sword against the Warden Commander; his dumbfounded expression making it quite clear that he never believed Duncan would follow through on his threat…

_'Pay the price now',_ Duncan had warned them. Saving Ferelden from the Blight would come at a cost and Grey Wardens would have to make the ultimate sacrifice now…or later_. _What he didn't tell them was that it would be no decision of theirs. _That_ would be left to Lady Fate and her fickle dice.

Merran didn't understand it. _Daveth and Jory…_They were both _warriors, _not some newly-Harrowed Mage who'd never seen the outside of her Tower for more than an hour at a stretch. The two men had even _looked _like Grey Wardens. Daveth with his self-confident air and his cocky grin and Ser Jory…so soldier-like and ready to be a hero…It made no sense! And it didn't seem _fair._ The most significant thing she'd done in her life so far was hold the record for the number of spitballs on the ceiling of the infirmary.

And the Warden Commander…he'd looked so disappointed, weary and old; such grief etched into the shadowed planes of his face that Merran had retreated behind a pillar, out of the way of further conversation and the bodies of the two men she'd thought would be her companions to the end of the Blight. _Two failures, _his expression had told her_…_Or had he counted her survival as a failure as well? Despite his previous assurances that Mages were needed in the Order, she was no warrior. And warriors were needed more weren't they?

The sound of boots scraping across the stone behind Merran caused her to flinch. She hugged her arms more tightly about her body, refusing to look, refusing to listen to the deliberately hushed voices…arguing about spare equipment…wasting good armour. She didn't want to _know_…

Across the camp, torchlight flickered like stars. The distant boom of thunder accompanied a flash of blue-white across the horizon, dark clouds consuming what little moonlight there had been. The air had an expectant feel…tense and constricting.

_I wonder if they're waiting for me? _Would Duncan be angry if she didn't turn up at the meeting? How important was her presence? If the summons had come from the King himself it could be embarrassing for poor Duncan and the man had had enough to put up with for one evening. Yet her body simply refused to budge. How long had she been standing here now? Minutes, hours?

She heard footsteps behind her. Not Alistair. Those weren't his heavy, impatient footfalls. _He'd _fled the old temple shortly after Duncan had departed, leaving her on her own. Not that she expected anything less, the _cowardy custard…_Without a backward look at either Daveth or Ser Jory…_Oh Maker…! How is anyone going to explain this to Ser Jory's wife?_ He'd been so proud, so pleased that he'd been chosen to be a Grey Warden and now…? An open hipflask dangled in front, startling her, the sharp scent of something alcoholic stinging the inside of her nose.

"Here, lass." It was Gareth, his voice rough with awkward sympathy. "I don't know whether you're a drinker," he added, "but if it helps any…"

Merran wrinkled her nose, giving him a polite but firm shake of her head; the movement – small as it was - causing the pound in her head to intensify. Alcohol would have made her headache so much worse.

"You sure?" he persisted, giving the flask a wiggle.

"Thank you…" She didn't want to offend him. She appreciated the gesture, really. He was trying to help her to feel better. It just wasn't…"I think I'm supposed to be meeting with the King," she explained. "Some…time. Later. Now. It…probably won't be a good thing to turn up drunk…?"

"No," Gareth agreed. "But it might be _amusing._"

Merran made a face, tried to laugh, but the noise that emerged sounded strangled and weird. Gareth must have noticed how awkward it was for her, judging by the deep pause that followed. Normally she would have followed up with something reassuring or clever herself, trying to make _him _feel better, but again all she could manage was to continue watching the world, her eyes alighting eventually on the bright glow of the smithy's forge at the far end of the camp. If she angled her head – carefully – she hear the metallic clang of the king's smith hard at work, repairing arms and armour and taming piles of bent metal into other useable items. When Gareth spoke again she jumped once more.

"There was only one death at our Joining," he told her quietly. "But it was…horrible."

_Is there any death that _isn't_ horrible, _Merran wanted to demand, the vision of Daveth and Ser Jory's last few minutes on Thedas once more recurring.

From somewhere on the other side of King Cailan and General Mac Tir's tents echoed the hollow bark of hounds, restless in their kennels. _Sensing the oncoming battle, _she wondered_? Or death in the camp? _She told herself it was the latter; the war hounds offering a canine eulogy of sorts. Daveth had delivered his flowers to the hound master. He'd planned to return in the morning to check on the mabari's progress and see whether the hint that the hound master had made; that the mabari might imprint on a new owner (and that new owner would be Daveth) would be correct.

_I should maybe…tell the Mabari Keeper that Daveth won't be turning up…_That way the dog could find another owner. A good one. As good as Daveth had planned to be.

Beside her Gareth took a sip from the flask, stoppering it then tying it to his belt. Someone else approached and the Warden turned.

"Um…"

Merran scowled. _Urgh. Alistair…_Unlike her reaction to Gareth and his kind offer of a drink, Merran shrank away, tossing the junior Warden an annoyed look when he held out a small object towards her. Merran did not take it. She merely stared at it. It was some kind of jewellery; a pendant of sorts made out of a plain, circular piece of metal. In the centre was a tiny glass phial containing something black and oily, the entire piece hanging on a long, thin strip of leather. _What, _her mind demanded crossly. _He's giving me jewellery? Is that supposed to cheer me up now? _

"This is…" Alistair cleared his throat awkwardly. "This is the last part of the Joining," he explained. "We take a bit of the blood and put it in a pendant; to remind us of those who didn't…make it."

_Oh…Nug poop._

Feeling a slight pang of guilt, Merran retrieved the pendant from his palm; still warm from his touch. She held it up to the torchlight, the Joining potion inside sloshing greasily, glinting red where it caught the light.

Alistair cleared his throat again. "I was going to…um, _ask_ whether you'd had any dreams," he began with an odd inflection. "But you didn't actually, you know, lose_ consciousness._"

"Really?" Gareth sounded surprised, shocked. "That'd be a first. Maker, I was out for what felt like _days._"

"Yes I know," Alistair quipped, mockery in his voice. "Which is how we were able to give you that wonderful makeover…"

Scowling, Gareth ran a hand over his stubbled head, remembering a full head of hair and happier days. "Oh thank you so much reminding me," he said sourly. "I'll have you know it took me _years_ to grow my hair that long. And now," he muttered in a lowered, resentful voice, "it won't grow back at _all_…"

"Well," Alistair sniffed. "Serves you right for being more obsessed about your silken locks than I was – am – and_ anyway _it was Godfrey's idea to get the clippers out."

"And the lipstick and rouge?" Gareth's mouth twisted downwards unhappily.

"Ah," Alistair told him cheerfully. "_That _was Gregor's idea. Good job too. I've always wondered since whether he'd missed his calling as a noblewoman's maid."

The two of them continued to trade conversation, their voices washing over her as though she were not there. They were pleasant voices, she had to admit. Even Alistair. Whenever he'd had to speak to her it had been in a higher-pitched, petulant tone, clearly he hadn't wanted to speak to her at all but listening to the two of them now, joking with each other man to man he sounded…different. They were so familiar with each other; a familiarity she'd been looking forward to establishing with her new, fellow Grey Warden recruits…_Oh that's e__nough!_ Merran's inner Senior Enchanter Wynne stamped her foot quite _firmly _at her. _Wallowing in self-pity about what cannot _be_ isn't going to get you anywhere._ _What is done is done!_

Forcing herself to _move, _she took a steadying breath. Raising the pendant, she threw one end of the leather thong around her neck, intending to tie it and then move on to join Duncan at the meeting. But her fingers were so numb and unresponsive from being clenched so tightly they refused to work properly. After some short fumbling, one of the two Wardens came to her rescue. At first there appeared to be some kind of altercation behind her; a slapping noise and an unhappy grunt followed by Gareth's voice.

"Ah, all done, _sister…_" Gareth's sentence ended abruptly in a bout of loud snuffling. "What in Andraste's _simmering bloomers_ is that _smell_?" he demanded. Merran turned to find the older Warden twitching his nose towards his companion. "Is that…_you, _Alistair?"

Placing a very firm hand on a shoulder, Alistair pushed Gareth to a proper distance from him. "What, eh?" he replied a touch defensively. "I had a bath."

Gareth's eyebrows rose, his nose still twitching as he tried to move in closer again. "You smell like…like _flowers._"

Did Alistair just look towards her, Merran wondered? For a moment there had been the briefest glance…

"I happened to be covered in Darkspawn filth," he managed smoothy. "Granted, it's _not _normally a scent that I would…" He caught Merran's curious gaze. "…_share_ with other people because not everyone can carry off such a…"

"Girly perfume," Gareth supplied with a grin.

"It is _not _girly!" Alistair told him, outraged. "You're just jealous because you simply aren't manly enough to handle something like this. You just don't have the _nous._"

"'Nous'?" Gareth sputtered. "No. You just smell like a girl."

"Well, and there's nothing wrong with that!" Alistair clasped his hands together, directing his gaze heavenwards, reminding himself that Duncan had instructed him to _try_ at least to be nice to Merran. "I rather like it myself."

Before he could act, Merran suddenly leant in close, sniffing at him just as Gareth had done. Except in the Mage's case, she actually _touched _him. The tip of her nose – accidentally, he hoped! – bumping the underside of his chin.

"_Andraste's Grace…_" she told them both, Alistair infinitely glad that it was too dark to see him turn red as a beet. Maker, he could feel his _hair _turning scarlet, along with the air around his head for a half metre radius…What was it with the girl and her lack of personal space? "It's a tad strong though," Merran concluded, stepping back finally. "I wonder whether the Mages gave me the right soap. It certainly didn't smell like this dry. But it's…nice on you."

"Oh ho!" Gareth's grin widened, noting with far too much glee Alistair's darkened skin and their newest Warden's guilelessly wide eyes. Casually, he threw an arm around Merran's shoulders. "Maybe I should get some of this scent for myself too."

"It's _soap_, Gareth," Alistair told him sourly. "Which means you'll need to _wash _yourself with it. You do remember what washing means, don't you?"

"Oh ha, ha," Gareth made a face at him. "I have been known to wash from time to time, I'll have you know. Did it last Tuesday, in fact."

"_Tuesday_?" Alistair countered. "And here I was thinking we'd put our camp too close to the mabari enclosure. I was also wondering why General Loghain was looking so sou…Maferath's sainted gloryboxers!" Alistair clapped a hand to his forehead suddenly. He pointed at Merran. "Aren't _you_ supposed to be in a meeting with the King right now?"

"Oh…" Merran grimaced. _That. _"Yeah…" She was hoping someone would have forgotten that…"I am…"

-oo-

It was _pink._

The First Enchanter sat back in his threadbare chair - the lumps of stuffing shifting to accommodate his weight as he drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. The afternoon tea adventures had _not _ceased on Merran Amell's departure and Irving was baffled. The First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Mages_…baffled_. Quite frankly, it was embarrassing.

Hooking a finger through the handle, Irving lifted the delicate-print tea cup to his nose. It _smelled_ like tea. It just didn't _look _like tea. Instead of the restful caramel colour one normally expected, it was lurid pink like a prostitute's boudoir. On the other hand Irving's recollection of the Pearl's décor in Denerim had been far more tasteful than this he was sure.

And yet…there appeared to be no magical residue. This perturbed him more than the colour. He truly expected life to return to some semblance of normality when Merran Amell left the Tower. The fact that it continued as though she were still _here _instead of halfway across the country was completely unfair…

The door to Irving's study exploded on its hinges, raining a cloud of dust from the ceiling. The gritty fog cleared, revealing a fuming, red-faced Knight Commander, looking as though he'd just sprinted up all seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy steps to the First Enchanter's office. The Templar staggered into the room as though wounded or drunken, arms fending off some unseen attacker. Hurling himself at the desk dislodged several important documents and various magical items. Greagoir's eyes were wild and bloodshot and…_desperate_.

"Irving!" he bellowed in fits and starts. "This…is…the…last!"

Irving sighed. Deliberately and carefully he replaced the tea cup onto its saucer. "Knight Commander," he nodded in acknowledgement. "You appear somewhat discombobulated."

"Discom…? Gah!" Greagoir banged his fist onto the desk, causing the tea things to rattle ominously. "Your…your…_Mages…_have been…argh!" The Knight Commander twisted in his seat; his weird contortions hampered by his bulky armour.

"My Mages are argh?" Irving inquired quite calmly.

"I'm…! Your…!" Irving winced at the Knight Commander's continuing contortions as the Templar continued to add curses to the uncomfortable jerking and wiggling. "Can't. Get. Out. Of. OurMakercursedarmour!" Greagoir seethed. "_Andraste's flaming girdle…!_"

"Is that a problem?" Irving enquired serenely. "I was given to understand you made your lads _sleep _in their armour as a training exercise."

"Yeech!"

"Yeech?"

"I…Itching powder in…Itching powder…!" Greagoir smashed his gauntleted hand onto Irving's desk. The tea cup jumped several millimetres from the saucer. Bright pink liquid splashed across a rare, first edition of the Archmage de Pouvoir's_ Magique Transformatik pour L'Idiottes. _"I swear Irving I'm going to kill…Every. Damned. Mage. In. This. Tower!" he fumed.

Irving resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, with a single flick of a finger every fastener and buckle on the Knight Commander's suit of armour disintegrated, the bulky pieces of heavy plate not resting on the old Templar's frame ripped off with a rapidity that caused Irving's beard to sway. Freed of the armour, Greagoir stood, shaking.

"Thank you!" Without further ado, the Knight Commander about-faced, marching towards the door. "If someone needs me I'll be swimming in Lake Calenhad!"

Silence mercifully returned. Irving rose, strolling towards the pile of heavy armour left behind by the Knight Commander. He extended a foot, poking at the metal cautiously. _Hm…_No trace of magic there either.

_Most _baffling! With a shrug, Irving returned to his old chair and the contemplative study of his puce tea…_And in a dusty corner of Irving's office, a shadow watched, snickering in satisfaction_…

-oo-

"I hear congratulations are in order."

Merran could feel Duncan's tense gaze while the king addressed her. She had promised Gareth and Alistair faithfully that she would _not_, under any circumstances say or do anything to cause an incident requiring the forced and immediate ejection of every Grey Warden from Ferelden, such as they were. So, as much as she wanted to tell the young king that his congratulations were about as welcome as a hornet in her smallclothes and that he could probably shove his ideas of glory…into a slightly less prominent place, she didn't. Nor did she tell him that two good men had died tonight, horribly and needlessly while people like him spoke of easy battles and bards singing of great deeds of this time.

So, like a good little Grey Warden she ducked her head modestly, murmured thanks. It wasn't as if the King was waiting with bated breath for an acknowledgement in any case, turning back to General Loghain and his maps immediately after. Forgotten for the moment, Merran observed the King from beneath her lashes, trying – for the life of her – to figure out why he seemed so familiar.

_Well of course he's familiar! _Her brain scoffed at her. The King's likeness was stamped on every Ferelden coin and more than one tavern had his portrait attached to their wall…not that she was a frequenter of such establishments. She frowned. In his massive, enchanted _aurum _armour King Cailan resembled an overdressed, blond pea. Who else did she know that looked like that? One of the Templars back at the Tower? No. Very few Templars went about without their full helmets and so she didn't actually know what the majority of the Templars even _looked _like, never mind who she could compare to the King.

So whom? Someone she'd met recently? A person she'd seen around the camp perhaps?

"…then let it be a Grey Warden," the King was looking at her again. "I want the best. The new Warden and Alistair would be perfect for the task."

_Eh? _Merran blinked, surprised to be under scrutiny by the King again. "I have every faith in your ability to perform such an essential role," he told her. " You and Alistair…"

_Ho…_

Merran's eyes widened as her brain turned itself ponderously around to the present. She blinked once…twice at the King, finding Duncan's hand on her shoulder and his firm voice in her ear.

"Will you inform Alistair of the plan, Merran? I have a few things to attend to but will join you and the others shortly."

_Eh? _"Plan?" Merran blurted stupidly. "There's a plan?"

Behind the King, General Loghain snorted in disgust. Duncan cleared his throat. "You and Alistair will light the beacon, signalling General Loghain's troops to charge."

"Bacon?" Merran blinked again. "There'll be bacon?"

"Beee-con," King Cailan repeated, eyeing her with amusement. _Darn! _Who else did she know with the same nose? The same stubborn chin? The same…"And this is no small thing, Warden," he was saying. "I would not leave such an important task to just anyone."

"Anyo…" Her mouth formed an 'Oh'. A rather large one. Alistair…_Alistair…! _And the King was looking at her now with the sort of expression that told said 'I hope you're thinking what I think you're thinking'. Or, she decided, he was probably bored with her now. But…it made sense. Scale down the King's armour to something less…large and flashy, put the two men together – side by side – and…well Alistair's hair was…darker? Shorter, but no less _fussy _looking. She had no idea what colour Alistair's eyes were but Maker, it made so much _sense._ They could be – almost – _brothers_. _And_ King Cailan and Queen Anora had been married for years now. Without issue. Come to think of it, Alistair was billeted away from the main army and the rest of the Grey Wardens. Merran had thought it was because it was to supervise the recruits, not because…Had that been the King's decision? To keep Alistair close? Or Duncan's, to stop others from seeing the resemblance and drawing conclusions?

_Surely Alistair hasn't been kept as a…as a…spare…?_

The very idea made her very, very nervous. "Uh…"

"You'll find Alistair by my tent," Duncan's voice prompted her, with no explanation as to _why _the junior Grey Warden should be found there. Merran forced herself to turn to Duncan.

"Duncan," Merran murmured. "If it's just the bac…uh, _beacon _I think I can light it myself. Really…"

_You should agree to this plan…You should not be here…_

The unexpected voice in her head pulled her up short. She looked about. _Where__…?_

"It will be done, your Majesty," she heard Duncan assure the king. "As you command."

_Run…flee from here…!_

"There, you see?" King Cailan grinned. "Glory for all!"

Without any decision being made on her part, Merran's feet moved, backing her away from the King and his grizzled, long-suffering General. She cast one, confused look at Duncan, bestowing the sketchiest of curtseys to the King.

_You must leave here…run…!_

The sense of urgency made Merran suddenly breathless…and eager to be as far from here as possible. Before she could realise it, she had passed beneath the crumbling arches of the King's open-air war room, her pace quickening with every step. By the time she'd passed the open Chantry and mabari pens, she was practically running, the gates of the camp looming closer.

"Whoa! Where in Andraste's name are you going?"

Merran's head snapped back as two mail-clad arms halted her flight abruptly. She struggled, finding herself being suspended midair, feet pedalling uselessly.

_Run…flee from here…RUN…!_

She flailed, trying to escape, her elbow connecting with a sharp crack to the side of her assailant's head.

"The horde's out there!" Alistair's voice warned her. "Are you mad? I – ouch! – what are you…!" Her fist connected with his jaw again. She was no fighter, but the voice in her head compelled her to run; to flee for her life. Lashing out with a foot, she twisted in Alistair's grasp, desperation increasing. Flame flared from a hand…then white hot pain bloomed in her head.

_A Holy Smite…!_ Merran gasped at the shock of the wholly unexpected Templar trick, instinct causing her to clear her head of any spell that came into it. Years of living with Templars had ingrained in her a deep sense of magic-preservation. First came the Holy Smite. Always. Then the Templars drained a Mage of mana. And she couldn't afford that…Because magic was all a Mage had. Without magic a Mage was just a bag of muscle and fat and squidgy bits.

"Stop! Just stop, okay?"

She _had_ stopped, hanging from his arm like a wilted lettuce.

"I overhead some soldiers talking," he told her urgently, giving her a shake. "The horde's been spotted gathering in the valley. There's no point in _deserting _now. Like it or not, this is where we make our stand."

"For the glory of Ferelden?" Merran spat bitterly, the accusation that she was deserting them all flying over her head. Not when he _sounded _like King Cailan. "You and the stupid king are the same!"

Alistair released her abruptly. She fell to the ground in an angry heap. As she did so, her head whipped up, magic crackling down her arms…_always keep mana in reserve…hit them when they least expect it…_Her vision flashed black and red.

"Don't!" Alistair warned her; "Or so help me, I'll drain every last iota of magic from you. You won't be able to _breathe_."

Merran growled; a feral instinct in response to his threat. "Just you try, _Templar_!"

Alistair found himself hurled backwards. He immediately tried to rise, finding silvery chains snaking up from the ground, wrapping themselves around his limbs. They slammed him to the ground, tightening…the air from his lungs gone. Unable to draw another breath, he found spell after spell tearing at him, pummelling him where he lay. Sparks began to appear in his vision, he gritted his teeth, determined not to let the Mage get the better of him. He didn't need the use of his limbs to…

"Ack! You blasted…bloody…irritating…stupid…_cursed_…!"

The chains evaporated and Alistair rose unsteadily to his feet, every muscle in his body protesting at the simple act of standing. He viewed the writhing Mage with satisfaction. "Is…that," he gasped, still short of breath, "the best…that you can…do?"

He managed a few steps towards her before he pitched face-first into the ground, the last of his strength leaving him. He smelled blood, but did not care. He hurt too much. Managing to turn his head, he was at least reassured by the fact that the Mage hadn't been able to do much more but lie grimacing in pain a short distance away. A hand rose, knuckling her eyes before she turned an accusing gaze upon him.

"You're a Templar," she stated.

"Mmf," was all he could manage this time.

"You know…" she curled her lip at him. "Normally, I would send a Rejuvenation spell at you, but I have no mana for that. So you'll just have to suffer."

Alistair glowered at her. _She still has enough energy to say all of that?_ Clearly he hadn't been as thorough as he'd like…but he knew all the same that he'd hit her pretty hard. Back at the Chantry he'd been taught to bleed Mages out carefully; in increments, but Duncan hadn't required him to be so subtle with Emissaries; Darkspawn capable of magic. He'd used the same tactic on Merran; as brutal and as quick an attack as he could make it. If she'd been an Emissary she would be a drooling puddle by now.

The fact that she wasn't made him feel oddly…proud.

"I trained…only," he told Merran, making an effort. "Conscripted…before…final vows"

"Guh," Merran spat unhappily. "Figures."

"Yeah," Alistair glared at her. He raised a hand, prodding gently at his nose. "I learned enough to know Mages _hate _Templars."

"That's a fallacy based on stereotyped preconceptions by ignorant people who've never lived in the Circle Tower!" Merran protested in a sudden burst of energy. "Some of the best people I know are Templars," she added with a pout.

Alistair snorted rudely at her. "Really?" he scoffed. "Sounds like _you_ have a sweetheart." _And I feel sorry for him. _

"That's none of your beeswax!" she snapped, rolling onto her back.

"Huh," Alistair added, attempting to prop himself up onto his elbows and failing. "'Sweetheart'. I thought that wasn't _allowed_…Mages and Templars…I might tell on you. When…I…can move again. Which probably…won't be for another year or so." _Oh Maker I hurt…!_

"What in Andraste's name are the two of you doing?" Duncan loomed over the both of them, looking very disapproving. Merran had the grace to grimace apologetically. She turned to Alistair.

"Oh by the way," she said. "Apparently we have to light the signal beacon. King's orders."

This unexpected information gave Alistair new vigour; he bolted upright in surprise. "What! I won't be in the battle?"

Duncan extended a hand towards the both of them, helping them to their feet. He'd been witness to the whole episode between ex-Templar and Mage and been…impressed. He'd seen both of them in combat before, but nothing like _this. _It was quite clear that his instincts about Merran were not incorrect, feeling a wash of emotion that went beyond mere professional, commanderly pride. He recalled the First Enchanter's supposition and wondered even more if…

"Why does the King need two _Grey Wardens_ holding a torch?" Alistair interrupted Duncan's thoughts angrily. "Surely anyone can do that?"

Collecting himself, Duncan levelled a hard gaze at the young Warden. "Grey Wardens do what they have to do," he reminded Alistair sternly. "If the King needs Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then two Grey Wardens will be in the tower to do so, exciting or no."

"Look at it this way, Templar-boy," Merran added mockingly. "This way you get to be everyone's shining light."

"Oh great…" Alistair drawled unhappily. "Why does that make me feel like _I'm _going to be set alight...and that wasn't a suggestion, by the way." Catching Duncan's impatient expression, he threw up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I _get_ it. We'll light the torch." Turning to Merran, he added, "And just so you know; if the king asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line, Darkspawn or no."

Merran curled his lip at him, "You're a very strange man."

"Huh," Alistair shot back. "It takes one to know one."

"I'm not a man!" Merran scowled.

"Could have fooled _me._"

"Ouch – ooh – _very _mature."

Duncan sighed, hoping this new banter between the two young people meant they had somehow reached some kind of understanding. Regardless, they would both have a chance to vent their anger further at the Darkspawn soon. He cut their arguing short. "The two of you had better take your positions," he advised. "We've just received confirmation that the main horde is amassing in the lower valley. Alistair," he added, placing a fatherly hand on the junior Warden's shoulder. "Remember, you are Grey Wardens. If anything should happen, you will do all that it takes to _stop _this Bli…"

He frowned abruptly, sniffing. "Alistair…Are you wearing…scent?"

"He had a bath, apparently," Merran informed him helpfully. "With soap."

"It's nice…" Duncan found himself adding. "Like flowers."

Giving his head a shake, the Warden Commander reined in his wayward thoughts. "I'd best join the other Wardens."

"Duncan…"

The Warden Commander remained briefly to pin Alistair with one last, uncompromising look. "_All that it takes,_" he repeated then turned away.

A few heartbeats later, Duncan heard footsteps behind him. "Duncan…" Alistair spoke, emotion clear in his voice. "May the Maker watch over you."

Duncan nodded grimly. "May he watch over all of us, Alistair."

-oo-


	7. Sticky Feet

A/N: Small warning – chapter contains ickyness, slime and bad things to Grey Wardens and others. If you're a bit squeamish I'd recommend laying off the red cordial for a bit.

-oo-

**Chapter 7 – Sticky Feet**

"Are you going to let go of my arm?" Alistair enquired. "Because I'm beginning to lose all feeling in it and also…" He attempted to shake her off, with no result. "_Sword_ arm," he explained pointedly. "Going to need that…maybe…probably…" His voice trailed off bitterly, indicating his opinion of their being left behind to light a _signal fire_ while his fellow Grey Wardens went off to meet the horde and an uncertain fate.

Merran didn't know what to say. Should she comfort him? Tell him it was going to be alright and that he was going to get his chance at glory with the others? After having just fought him about it, it would be hypocritical to say the least. If King Cailan had his reasons for keeping Alistair out of the main fight, she'd be the last to know, even if she felt it odd that such an important person as the king was willing to put himself in the thick of things; playing Darkspawn bait, instead of riding to the Grey Wardens aid as the General had planned to do…

Did it matter? The decision was out of her hands and she had no intention of encouraging Alistair. She wondered if Duncan would have argued for Alistair to remain with the Grey Wardens if there hadn't been such a strong resemblance to the king. On the other hand, if Alistair's uncanny likeness was just an unfortunate coincidence, then…and for some reason this made Merran more annoyed at the king on Alistair's behalf than if he really was Cailan's half brother or something…and _that _annoyed her even more; for feeling annoyed in the _first_ place.

It was all…chest beating and comparing the size of each other's codpieces or…_whatever…_"I hate men…" she muttered darkly under her breath.

Alistair scowled. "I _know_ this isn't about medals and _glory_ and little plaques above tavern doors," he flung the words at her like daggers. "I'm a Grey Warden. We fight Darkspawn. That's what we _do_." He exhaled a heated lungful of air. Arguing was pointless.

"It comes with the job description," he added, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Sooner or later, no Warden can avoid…Look can we just drop the subj…"

"How many Darkspawn are down there, do you think?" Merran asked abruptly.

Alistair blinked, trying to catch up to her race ahead in conversation. "I've been hearing different reports," he shrugged. "I don't know; thousands? Tens of thousands?"

She stared up at him, realising…_Brown. They're a kind of light brown…_her brain veering off into an unexpected direction. _Amber maybe? Hazel? Not blue like the King…_Giving her head a brisk shake she forced herself to focus. What had he just said? _Tens of thousands…? _Was that even possible? Not hundreds or – even better yet - just a couple skipping hand in hand (or claw in claw) enjoying the sunshine…? Trying to manoeuvre her head around what this would be _like _was proving to be almost as impossible a task as figuring out what colour Alistair's eyes were.

Was it important? Alistair's eyes weren't likely to tear her limb from limb.

"That's…" her voice emerged faint as though from far away. _Perhaps it's trying to run away too. I wouldn't blame it_. "That's a…a lot."

"Yes well…" He threw his hands in the air; impatient to just get on with what they had to do. "No doubt there'll be plenty for us later if Loghain's men don't go – you know - _overboard_ or anything and kill them all. Wouldn't want _that_ to happen, do we?" he added sarcastically. "Because clearly I have better things to do like – I don't know - washing my hair or…Look, I don't want to talk about this any more. Let's just get to the Tower of Ishal so we can have this beacon-lighting thing over and done with."

"Yeah…" Merran grimaced. A lot of Darkspawn was a…lot._ More than there are Mages in the whole of Thedas? How many Mages are there anyway? I don't know. It's not like anyone has ever counted them._

_Right?_

"Uh, Merran?"

Alistair waved a hand in front of her face. "You _really _need to let go of my arm" He waited, then; "Any time from now would be excellent."

She appeared to jerk awake, following his gaze down to her hand still clutching at his mail sleeve. Another grimace appeared. _Oh, that's still there? _Deliberately, she peeled each finger away, clasping both hands firmly behind her back just in case they decided on their own to make another grab for him. It was purely instinct. Or habit. Jowan had never minded her claim on his extremities whenever she was scared. He'd found it funny in fact but…Alistair wasn't Jowan, even if the Grey Warden's look of disappointment and abandonment echoed the same look Jowan had given her when she had left the Tower.

"Sorry," she mumbled, unable to recall whether she had apologised to Jowan before she left. It hadn't been as if she'd been thinking of anyone but herself at the time…

_I wonder if I'll get to see him again?_

"Well…?" Alistair asked.

"What?" she countered. _What is he waiting for?_ Then…"Oh for the Maker's sake!" she sputtered when she _realised. _"_I_ don't know where this Tower of Thingy is. Don't you?"

-oo-

A faint whistle growing in volume was the only warning before the massive boulder smashed into the side of the bridge, showering them with chunks of broken rock and other debris. Another followed, then another; each impact obscuring the next step and threatening to hurl them into the valley below. Alistair had better reflexes; throwing up his shield seconds before Merran could conjure a magical shield of her own to protect them from the rain of molten rock hindering their progress across the bridge.

Merran peeked out from under Alistair's shield cautiously, noting the crack that had appeared in the wood. Where there had been a manned catapult was now a few smoking chunks of firewood and a deep gouge in the stonework. As for the soldiers…

"Oh…that's…" Merran swallowed fast-rising bile as she surveyed the aftermath. "That's…that's an _awful_ lot of…of bl…"

"Keep moving!"

Alistair propelled her forward. Her foot slipped part-way. She looked down…_That's not just blood…that's…_

"Come _on!_"

The bridge took another hit as the two Grey Wardens stumbled across; rocked from side to side as the Darkspawn siege engines continued their onslaught. At the end, they paused to catch their breaths. The bridge gave a good view of those in the valley; of King Cailan's troops and the Grey Wardens, almost indistinguishable from their enemies. Another boulder struck nearby, a shard of flying stone slicing across Alistair's cheek; healed in seconds with a rapid-cast healing spell.

Alistair plucked at Merran's arm as he continued past. She began to follow, tripping over something that _wasn't _a rock…judging from the shape and size and…staring eyes…

"Merran!" Alistair grabbed roughly at her shoulder, unceremoniously pushing her ahead of him. The two broke through the gritty smoke haze to a littered path beyond, buffeted by the noise of battle, and the screams of people dying.

"You're…you're Grey Wardens!" The soldier colliding with them was bloodied and wild-eyed with desperation. "The tower! It's…it's been taken!''

"Taken? What do you mean 'taken'?" Alistair demanded.

"Darkspawn came up through the floor." The soldier looked about to flee, on the verge of tears, his voice unsteady. "Most of those in the tower are _dead_."

Alistair lowered his head. Thinning his lips, he directed a heated glare towards the tower; its base shrouded in fire and smoke. If those in the valley couldn't see _that_ then…

"Right." Alistair gestured to the soldier. "You, come with us," he stated. "And anyone else able-bodied." Sparing Merran the barest acknowledgement she was still with him, he headed towards the tower gates. Beyond that, the grounds appeared as battle scarred as the bridge across the valley. Smashed scaffolding littered the area, along with the dismembered bodies of both human and Darkspawn, their remains fuel for the fires that made navigating the area tricky.

One more soldier joined them at the tower doors, making their party five in all. Hardly a conquering force, they would not so much storm the tower as softly breeze through, Alistair's thundering war cries and Merran's spears of lightning notwithstanding. And the first soldier had not exaggerated. The tower had been taken; Darkspawn challenged them at almost every step. Merran tried to keep up as best she could but life in Kinloch hold had not prepared her for this much physical exertion. Scaling stone staircases had always been interspersed with long hours sitting at lessons and between casting her spells, healing, racing from room to room, picking their way ever upwards and getting caught up fighting Darkspawn, Merran was exhausted. If Duncan had told her being a Grey Warden would require this much _exercise_, she might have reconsidered her decision to join.

Her heavy robes - impractical for anything more than a sedate walk on level ground - kept twining about her legs and she had to stop frequently to unravel herself. They were also _hot. _Sweat pooled under her arms, running down her back and between her legs, causing the fabric to stick even more to her skin. It wasn't long before Merran wished she'd had the option to send a fireball to the top of the Tower from the ground level, but it was too late now.

And the higher up Alistair went, the further Merran trailed behind.

"I can't believe this!" Alistair commented, ramming his shield into a genlock before bringing his sword around and underneath. A mighty twist and a spray of blood and severed intestines and he pulled his sword free, kicking the remains of the Darkspawn's carcass to the side. He paused for a breath. "There weren't supposed to be any Darkspawn here."

There was no response. Not even a half-hearted attempt at sarcasm.

Scowling, Alistair cast a look over his shoulder. Instead of the Mage, there were only body parts and blood. Panic gripped him, ice water sluicing through his veins. He _swore _Merran had been there a moment ago. _A bare moment!_

"We seemed to have lost the Mage lass," one of the others too realised Merran was missing. He turned to the bleeding archer next to him. "Anyone see her come up that last stairwell?" His question was met by a round of head shakes. None of them had really taken note, being too busy themselves. Everyone had just assumed she had been following…_Andraste take her! _Alistair cursed silently, even as a darker thought arose…_What if she hadn't been able to follow? _Maker, Duncan would have him strung up by his innards. _I'd promised him I'd look out for her. _Losing a Grey Warden barely hours after she survived her Joining did not reflect well on his leadership skills.

If he had any to begin with.

"Maybe we should go down and have a look for her?" the first soldier suggested, though unconvincingly.

Alistair shook his head slowly, guilt and cold fear roiling in his gut. "W-we don't have time," he told them, more to convince himself than anything else. "We have to light that beacon or…" His voice failed him. He didn't want to finish that sentence. It was bad enough losing Merran. If the General did not know when to charge…But it was not worth contemplating what would happen to the King and the Grey Wardens either. They – _he _– still had a task to complete.

"Well then…" the archer murmured, standing aside to allow the Grey Warden to enter the last door; the one that would take them to the room housing the beacon. Forcing himself to inhale, Alistair stepped forward with far more confidence than he felt, wrenching the door open to reveal what was beyond.

"_Blessed Andraste_…!" the archer whispered hoarsely, beginning to back away. Alistair gritted his teeth, readying his sword, just as the beast within _charged…_

-oo-

_Wet dog…why did they always smell like wet dog? _Well, to be fair, they _were_ dogs. But why 'wet'? Merran leant her head back against wall, too weak to continue her internal argument. Her magic was depleted, her limbs refused to respond. _What do I do now? _Wait for Alistair to come looking for her? Would he even do that?

The two surviving mabari the party had rescued earlier sat on either side of her, deceptively quiet and rigidly watchful. Merran had used the last of her magic healing them. It had been a fair trade seeing how efficiently they had protected her against a fresh swarm of genlocks and hurlocks. Merran meanwhile, sheltered behind a door while she recovered. _Just a few moments more…_and her mana would come back. _Any moment now…_

Not that she would have any idea where to go once she felt able to move again. She was lost. Well and truly. More than seventeen years living in a circular tower and yet she still managed to lose her way in this one with little effort. Fighting Darkspawn had been disorienting of course, but the Tower of Ishal hadn't been built to be _complex. _Every floor consisted of a single entry point surrounded by interconnecting rooms. Easy enough. Or so she thought.

And…and there was so much…so much _blood. _There. Okay. She admitted the existence of the gore and…_gore…_surrounding her. It was hard to miss, being all red and…splotchity and…_Oh Maker, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it…Ooh, is that mine_? The sight of it made her head spin, her stomach lurching in that unmistakeable way that told her it really didn't matter whether she had had breakfast or not. And yet…tiredness made her slightly…"Ah ha ha ha…I'm covered in blood. Isn't that funny…?"

One of the mabari whined, placing his massive head into her lap, copious amounts of drool making her robes even more sodden. _I'm never going to get that out,_ her brain told her in dizzying loops. _But look on the bright side, if I pass out here, I won't know if I die by Darkspawn_.

_Magic…I need magic. Yes. That is what I need…_And then the mabari on her right lifted his head suddenly; a deep growl vibrating in his wide chest. His legs unfurled as he rose, teeth bared. The other mabari – a female – rose too, the two hounds flanking Merran protectively. With supreme effort, Merran forced herself to her own feet, using the wall at her back as a prop.

_More Darkspawn. _

"Need…lyrium…" she muttered to herself, knowing full well there was unlikely to be any to be found in the tower, seeing as far as she knew she was the only Mage here and she hadn't brought any lyrium with her. The Blue Dust usually made her a bit…_funny._

The female mabari nudged Merran's fingers, intelligent eyes bright in understanding. Without a sound it left her side, slipping silently out of the door. Moments later Merran heard a shuffling noise, followed by the distinctive grunting hoot of Darkspawn.

_Well_, she thought, gripping her magic staff in both hands. _A__t least I can hit them with this big stick of mine_…

Taking a deep breath, Merran stepped out from behind the door, the male mabari now snarling at her side. She raised her staff to strike just as a hideous, misshapen head appeared. The mabari launched himself at the Darkspawn first, knocking it sprawling, jaws tearing and snapping as it ripped the creature to shreds. And then the female mabari returned, dropping something at Merran's feet; something that fell to the stone with a clinking, glassy sound…

"Oh…!" Merran exclaimed in surprise. "You wonderful, wonderful girl!"

Snatching up the vials, Merran snapped the tops off two in rapid succession, downing the contents of both in a single gulp.

Another hurlock charged into view, spear aimed at the larger of the two mabari…A blast of white light framed the creature and hound for the briefest moment…When the room dimmed, all that was left was the mabari, drooling smugly; canines exposed in a victory grin. Merran lifted her arms, filled with a buzzing, exhilarating energy. Her fingers sparked with tendrils of lightning, her skin glowing from within. She grinned madly. She'd forgotten how _brilliant _lyrium made her feel. Literally.

They heard a terrified scream…Merran dashed out into the hall, just in time to see the body of one of Loghain's soldiers falling through the central tower shaft. She had only to half-blink; light blossomed pale blue around the man's body as he fell, slowing his descent. She looked upwards. _Right. _He'd come through that opening up there, so _there _was where she needed to go.

Her head swimming with raw, magical power, she turned to the mabari, grinning. "You with me?" she asked.

"_Wroogh!" _was his enthusiastic response.

Seized with a fit of uncontrollable giggling, Merran encased both mabari in rock armour so powerful they could have been used as catapult projectiles. "Let's try something interesting shall we?" she guffawed then…"Sticky…_FEET_!" she bellowed.

-oo-

Alistair brushed the blood out of his eyes, the scream of the archer as the man had been lobbed over the shaft ledge still echoing in his ears. The Ogre had made short work of the others. One lay in a crumpled heap on the other side of the room, another hung limply from the Ogre's fist. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor as the Ogre's claws contracted around the hapless soldier's body…to be tossed aside as the massive beast advanced on Alistair, drawn now by the Taint in the Grey Warden's blood.

Gloves slick with blood, Alistair swapped his sword over to his good arm; his right no longer of any use. He tried to stand, but thinking about rising did not translate into movement. Pain seared his body where he wasn't numb and his stomach threatened to disgorge the last of its contents. It had been mostly blood that he'd vomited up the first time, black and red spots dancing in his vision as consciousness threatened to desert him completely. All in all, he figured his prospects were not looking particularly good right now. Nor had any of them been able to light the beacon.

A shadow fell over him. It was the Ogre, maul raised to strike. Alistair closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

"_Back…_black and foul fiend!"

Light burned…Alistair knew that voice…It was female and _irritating…_His eyes snapped open as the voice added laughingly. "Ha, ha! Back to the pits from which you came!"

The Ogre roared…then burst abruptly like an over-inflated waterskin, putrid gore and shattered bone spraying the walls of the tower. Alistair had raised his arm reflexively, realising from the strange humming sound around him that he'd been protected from the blast by a force shield so powerful, every carefully trained Templar cell in his body thrummed in warning.

His eyes widened as his brain connected finally with his memory. "Merran…?" he managed hoarsely.

"Sorry 'bout that…" She wasn't speaking to him but to…_Maker is that a Griffon…?_ Like the Mage the snarling creature glowed with Andraste's fire itself; beautiful and terrifying to behold.

"Merran?" Alistair repeated again. "Is that…? Wait, did you say…?"

The glowing figure hunkered beside him, her bright eyes full of concern. "Oh my goodness…" he heard her say before he lost his vision once more.

Merran touched Alistair's arm tentatively, magic flowing from her fingertips to envelop him in healing energy. He looked, quite frankly, _awful, _his splintmail covered in blood and his right side looking…_mashed. _He jerked awake, just as the light from her hands began to sputter. Blinking furiously, he gazed up at her in confusion until the last of the magical glow around her abated.

"Alistair..." she started. "How do you feel?"

His eyes widened at the question. "That's a rhetorical question I hope?"

Merran grimaced. The dose of lyrium had not lasted long but that was how lyrium worked with her; _boom! _and then nothing, usually. Nor had she finished healing him either. His sword arm needed setting and…the bubbling noise in his throat as he tried to breathe indicated there were other more serious injuries requiring a _true _healer's attention. When his eyes fluttered closed again, panic rose.

"_Alistair_…!" she pleaded. "Try and stay awake." She touched his forehead. It was clammy and he'd begun to shiver. "Can you hear me? I think you need to…to stand…" _Well that was dumb, _her head told her, noticing for the first time that perhaps his leg shouldn't bend in _that_ particular place. Or at that particular angle.

His lips moved. Merran bent over him, listening close. "Beacon…" he whispered.

_Oh…_She turned briefly, the very last of her magic used to send a fireball into the centre of the pile of oil-soaked wood. Flame erupted, spiralling upwards, illuminating the room and reflecting off the polished surfaces of metal above. Now lit, it would continue to burn without magical intervention. Their task was now done. Merran returned her attention to Alistair, panic turning to dismay as she realised his skin had taken on a worrying, greyish pallor.

She wracked her memory for appropriate healing spells…every class she'd attended about poxes and stomach complaints and croup…and yet nothing _actually _came to mind. Not that it mattered. Without any mana, her spells were just useless words. And still despite her lack of magical energy, she could feel Alistair's life leave him in a thin stream…flowing steadily into the Fade. Scrubbing at her eyes in frustration, she sat back on her heels, unable to do little else but watch him. _He's dying, and I can't do a thing about it…!_

Behind, the two mabari barked abruptly. Merran turned – too late – sharp pain flared beneath her shoulder. In shock she looked down, searching for the cause to find the shaft of an arrow protruding and…_blood…__Oh…_Her head spun even as another arrow thudded into her chest.

_That's…that's my blood…_then everything dissolved into a black void of nothing.

-oo-

"_You realise this could get us into trouble? A _lot_ of trouble."_

"_Oh come _on_ Merran, live a little," Jowan teased, aiming a gentle punch to her shoulder. "It's about time this fusty old establishment had a bit of a shake up. And we're only going to get into trouble if we're _caught_."_

"_Couldn't we put up streamers and make some cake instead?"_

"_Again with the baking?" Jowan's eyebrow – the one he had spent months training – cocked on his forehead. "You're just too domestic for your own good."_

"_You say it like it's a bad thing," she pouted. "And I'll have you know I'm going to remember this moment, the next time you're feeling peckish in the wee small hours of the morning."_

"_So…" he asked, ignoring her threat (an empty one as she knew full well). "Are you in…or out?"_

_She sighed in resignation, knowing that brilliant as Jowan was at just about everything he turned his hand to, if he did this on his own, it was going to go horribly wrong._

"_Okay, okay. I'm in…"_

"_I knew you'd come around eventually. Right…now we begin…"_

-oo-

Merran's eyes sprang open to a view of a ceiling above. Dark, exposed beams hung low, the thatching in between patchy and mismatched as though random sections had been replaced at different times over the years. Despite the somewhat slapdash construction of the building in general, neat bundles of herbs hung from the beams in orderly rows. And the room where she lay was brushed clean, furnished sparsely. Nearby, a fire crackled in a small fireplace, the battered pot suspended over the flames steaming and rattling aromatic wafts into the room. Her stomach grumbled, telling her this wasn't a dream.

She was still alive.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Merran ran an inventory of her own: _arms; two, with adjoining hands… one, two, three…five fingers on each hand; legs; also two with knees…ankles and one…head. Still attached. Well, that's a relief._

She sat up slowly, gaining a better view of her surroundings. There was little here indicating the personality of those that lived here, except to tell her those that did preferred to live simply, with little adornment or luxury. A simple bookcase with a few books, a battered wooden chest, another bed and an animal skin placed onto the dirt floor was all there appeared to be…besides the cot she was currently on. And the fireplace of course. There was also something else…something terribly familiar about the place, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Ah, your eyes finally open," a mocking voice drawled nearby. "Mother will be pleased."

As Merran rose, the bed's coverings slipped. She shivered, realising she wore little more than her small-clothes in the company of - well not a _stranger_ exactly - locating the speaker. She recognised the young woman from the Korcari Wilds, which meant…

"I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten and _you _are in my mother's hut, where I have been tending your wounds."

Morrigan folded her arms across her chest, possibly waiting for some kind of response. An even more awkward pause followed before Merran noticed the small pile of clothing at the end of her cot. _My clothes…_There was no sign of her staff having survived with her.

"I have a wonder, if you feel inclined to indulge my curiosity," Morrigan's voice broke once more into her thoughts. "Do you…remember anything of my mother's rescue?"

Merran blinked, surprised. "Your mother rescued us?" she asked to a nod from the wilder woman. Did she remember? _I guess…_"No, I only recall…oh good grief!" she exclaimed suddenly. "The battle!"

"Ah…the battle…" Morrigan's oddly intent gaze skittered away at the mention of Ostagar. "The battle," she continued, "was lost."

"_What_?"

"The man who was to respond to the signal quit the field," Morrigan shrugged. "The Darkspawn won your battle and those your General abandoned were massacred. Your friend," Morrigan added lastly with a slight roll of her eye. "He is not taking it well."

"Friend…" Merran murmured. "Friend…?" _Jowan?_ No…_Gareth?_ No. Merran frowned as she considered the possibilities, then…"_Alistair?"_ she asked in disbelief. "Well, he's hardly my friend but…Wait," Merran blinked as part of Morrigan's information smacked her sideways. "_M__assacred? _What do you mean 'massacred'? No, no, no. that can't be right. It was supposed to be a…" _easy battle…_Which was stupid, Merran told herself. There was no such thing as an 'easy battle'. People were going to die regardless whether King Cailan's found his 'glory' on the battlefield or not.

It was never going to be easy. Or nice.

"What about survivors?" Merran asked. "Surely there must be survivors?" Some stragglers that managed to escape? Anyone? Another head shake dashed even that hope. _Well then, _"Maybe if we went back…" Merran suggested, just in case.

"That would be foolish," the wilder woman snapped with a curl of her elegant upper lip. "The Darkspawn are too many – and you would not like to see what is happening in the valley at this moment."

Cowed and disheartened by Morrigan's tone of voice, Merran slumped, plucking at the sacking covers over her legs. "I…I see," she murmured.

_Well then..._"Thank you for your help Morrigan," Merran managed a half-smile. Difficult as it was to form the smile there had been no reason for Morrigan and her mother to help them as they had. "I appreciate it."

"I…Mother is the healer, not I," Morrigan informed her loftily, her cheeks turning slightly pink. Tossing her head she added, "She wished to see you when you awoke. I would not keep her waiting, were I you."

_No survivors…_No one. No Grey Wardens…All of them gone…Merran swung her legs out of the bed; her mind refusing to journey any further beyond Morrigan's recommendation to see the old witch without delay. _Gareth…Duncan…I had so much to ask them. I was going to find some more of that soap Gareth liked…_Her brain fully occupied, she missed Morrigan's sharp intake of breath when the door was opened and she stepped outside.

They were in the swamp, Merran saw. The same place where they had retrieved the treaties. At the water's edge stood Alistair; whole and healed and looking as hearty as Merran could have hoped. Relief flooded through her. _No. Not all the Grey Wardens are gone…_

"See," Merran heard a laughing voice say. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much young man…"

Alistair turned at these words, his eyes boggling as every exposed inch of his skin flushed deep scarlet.

"Or perhaps…" the old witch cackled nastily, "worry you _should._"

_Eh? _For a full minute Merran could not quite understand what the witch meant because as far as she knew she felt just fine…until a soft breeze tickled through the tall grasses surrounding them. She shivered. It was almost as though…then Alistair _pointed, _stammering something unintelligible. The final dot in Merran's head connected, making a rather embarrassing picture in there. _Ah_. Merran about-turned, returning to the hut. She stood there a moment longer, running her hands through her hair and berating herself about how she could be so silly sometimes.

_Honestly, I could have caught my death out there…_

Morrigan, she saw, was waiting; the bundled up Mage robes in her hands. With a sigh, the wilder witch handed them to the Mage.

"Ah-ha…" Merran accepted them with a wiggle of her head. "Well…_that_ was a tad awkward."

Flicking out her robes, Merran held it up to her skin, still covered in goose-flesh from the chilly wind. "Best put these on now, eh?"

-oo-


	8. Which Witch?

I have to stop listening to Bollywood tunes when I write this…Merran and the team keep bopping across the inside of my head and refuse to sit still. If they break into frenzied song and dance during a serious battle with the darkspawn, you'll know why.

Thanks as _always _for the wonderful reviews.

-oo-

**Chapter 8 – Which Witch?**

Flemeth…! She had actually been _the _Flemeth from the tales. Alistair's brow furrowed deeply as his arms tightened about his knees. They had been scornful of Daveth that day in the swamps when he insisted Morrigan's mother was '_The_ _Witch of the Wilds'_. Well, Daveth had been right, hadn't he? The old woman _was_ Flemeth; the witch who according to legend, had raised dozens of daughters and devoured millions of naughty children who wouldn't eat their peas. She was old…and _evil…_and also illegal; a maleficar and an apostate and dangerous to know.

She was also battier than a disused belfry.

Girlish laughter drifted across from the other side of the camp, causing Alistair to shrink further into the ball of bone, flesh and armour that he had made of himself; the tip of his nose just visible between the safe confines of his knees He glared at the neat lean-to and merry fire – and the two women sitting around it – which was a mistake because the image of his fellow Grey Warden striding out of Flemeth's hut in little else but her smallclothes made another unwanted assault on his brain.

_Flemeth…right, Flemeth…_The Flemeth who – also according to legend – had bartered her soul with a powerful demon, unnaturally prolonging her life to hundreds of years, which meant that…More laughter…_I am not thinking of Merran in her underthings…I am not thinking of Merran in her underthings…oh yes I am. I'm thinking of it again. I am a bad, bad man._

He tried to force his mind to move on to other subjects, trying to fill the Merran-shaped spaces in his head with something else, seeing as thinking about Flemeth wasn't working. Nothing however, came to mind. _Cheese…little yapping lapdogs…The Chant of Light…yes!_ Meditation is what he needed_._ Squeezing his eyes shut, he ran through the little mental exercises for clearing the mind of all extraneous, unholy thought…Merran Amell - the last, stubborn thought to linger - was not only his brother-in-arms, but also a _Mage._ Mages were dangerous, unreliable. So easily possessed by demons…_Ooh, I remember one of the initiates doing a very funny sketch of a demon once._ It had been a Desire Demon; with great big horns and…_things_ on her…naked…bi…bu…boo…_damn._

_This isn't working._

He sighed into his knees, not too sure _why _the image of Merran emerging barely clothed into the swamp kept taking over all his waking – and sleeping – thoughts. Besides Darkspawn, that is. Like Darkspawn, it wasn't as if he even _liked_ the girl. _Maker, _he hadn't met anyone he'd wanted to throttle more. And that 'Hi-there-I'm-Merran!' act didn't fool him. At. All. She was sneaky and sarcastic and insulting and _no, my hair does _not _look like a duck's bottom, thank you very much_…The fact that she was conspiring at this very moment with that acid-tongued _Apostate _told him everything he needed to know about the Mage. Oh, she might have fooled Duncan and Gareth and the other Grey Wardens with her great, big doe eyes and fluttering eyelashes and promises of cheese toasties but _he _was not so easily taken in.

Meditation very quickly gave way to compiling a very long and important list of _Things I Hate About The Mage_ in his head, interspersed with darker, deeper thoughts about Duncan and the other Grey Wardens, his back teeth grinding with every item.

_And what did she mean any way by him 'smelling _funny'? What sort of person said that? Not a nice one, that was for sure. _Oh Maker, poor Duncan…_And what had she called him this morning? _He didn't deserve a fate like that..._'A walking block of cheese'?…_betrayed for doing his duty…_just because the path was narrow and she'd been too slow to get in ahead of him. _Unlike General Loghain who _deserted _his king and liege in the midst of battle…_And anyhow, walking behind her was a _bad _idea because she had this way of _swaying, _reminding him of the view he'd had when she had walked back into Flemeth's hut and…_oh Maker, here I go again…_

_Damn her swaying hips…!_

_Loghain, why would you do that…? _And now there were only two Grey Wardens in the entire country and all one of them could think about was a _Mage's bottom…_

-oo-

"I don't like the way he looks at you…This is very good stew, by the way," Merran said, stretching her legs out to warm her feet by the fire. She frowned a little at the rough puckers in her patched skirt. While grateful to Morrigan and her mother yet again for the service that the two women had rendered them, she needed to find an alternative to these ungainly robes. Something perhaps like the trousers and the loose…'blouse' Morrigan wore.

Well, the trousers anyway.

"He looks at me in what way?" Morrigan enquired, golden eyes even more piercing as they reflected the fire light.

"Well," Merran purposely did not meet the witch's eyes. "He sort of glances – looks at – you know, your…assets."

"My breasts, you mean?" Morrigan stated, cocking a slender eyebrow.

Merran gave an awkward laugh. "Well, they're a bit hard to miss."

The witch snorted, unconvinced. "When I questioned your 'walking block of cheese' about the subject of his gaze," she sniffed. "He claimed to be looking at my nose."

"No, _really_?" Merran's eyes widened in disbelief. _Nug droppings…that's just…_"He actually thought he could get away with saying something like that? I hope you weren't convinced. And he's not _my_ walking block of cheese by the way."

Both Morrigan's eyebrows rose. "My conclusion differs," she argued coolly. "His gaze lingers on you more often than not."

"Beh," Merran spat. Regarding the dancing flames between them, she tapped the end of her spoon against her nose. "No. If he looks at me it's probably to check to make sure I haven't spontaneously turned into an abomination or something equally horrible. It's a Templar thing. Did you know he trained as a Templar…? These Chantry types are a bit _odd_ if you get what I mean. All that praying and chanting and…_abstinence. _You know I have as yet to meet a sane Templar? Do you think he was a bit shocked when he saw me come out of your mother's hut the first time? He went a bit pink."

"'A bit shocked' would seem an understatement," Morrigan said dryly.

Merran shrugged. She'd grown up in a crowded dormitory. Privacy was something that happened to other people. If Alistair had spent most of his life in a monastery it would have been the same thing wouldn't it? All those little boys and girls crowded into the one place together - just like Mages - comparing their proficiency in magic. Except with Templars she supposed it would be all about seeing who had the biggest sword.

"Jowan saw me in my underthings all the time and he didn't make such a huge fuss," Merran told her. "I certainly didn't think it odd seeing Jowan in _his_ smallclothes. " She gave a snort of laughter, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Not that it was anything to write home about, poor Lily!"

Morrigan suppressed a sigh. The girl was as clueless as the stupid, drooling Templar-lecher, but Flemeth had taken a rather unexpected interest in the young Mage. Hideous as the thought was, Morrigan could understand why it was necessary to cultivate some kind of rapport with the male Grey Warden. In the case of the Mage however, Flemeth had not favoured her with an explanation, beyond the fact that Merran was powerful and needed to be watched. Watched yes, needing to listen to incessant chatter about mindless, meaningless things tangled in convoluted sentences however, was much more difficult. And the _touching…_There was no need for the girl to cling to her arm like an overactive boil. Did Flemeth know how irritating this task was going to be? Was her mother laughing at her somewhere…?

"Do you think…" Merran said abruptly, causing Morrigan to choke on a bit of stewed root. The Mage did not notice; her gaze fully occupied in observing the pathetic heap of humanity on the other side of their camp. "Do you think," Merran repeated, "that he realises he's been sitting in the rain all this time?"

Morrigan spared the briefest glance at the other Grey Warden. She had noticed, yes but she had not cared. It was nothing of her concern if the fool chose to rust in the storm. It seemed however, that the female Grey Warden did care. She took a sip of her tea then sighed. "If you have a concern for him," Morrigan suggested her sarcastically, "then perhaps you should hold a leaf over his head?"

"You know, Morrigan that's a very sweet idea, thanks," the Mage said sincerely. The smaller woman rose swiftly, bowl still in hand. Holding it above her head in a useless attempt to keep the rain off, Merran stepped out from under the protective shelter of the lean-to into the heavy rain.

-oo-

_This,_ Alistair thought miserably _is wrong._ Everything felt wrong. Thinking about barely-clad, fellow Grey Wardens was really_, really _wrong_. _Being one of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden was even…wrong-er. He shouldn't be out _here_ fleeing from the Korcari Wilds with nothing but the splintmail on his back and two _questionable_ women in tow. Maker, one of them was an unchaperoned Mage and the other an Apostate! If that didn't scream _Victim of Thrall _then he didn't know what did. And anyway, how did Flemeth find those Treaties? Neither he nor Merran had brought them into the Tower of Ishal with them…which meant that Flemeth had either gone searching through Ostagar for them, or she had _nicked _them from the Grey Warden camp before the battle…which meant that she had been _spying_ on them…which didn't surprise him the least because it meant that he'd been right all along; she _was_ a sneaky witch thief.

_Except_, the little Duncan-sounding voice in the back of his head reminded him, _Grey Wardens do_ w_hatever it takes._ If Duncan had lived; if it had been he whom Flemeth had plucked from the field of battle instead, would the Warden Commander have placed his trust in a mad old woman and her hawk-eyed daughter? _Hah!_ _Gareth_ _would have said yes. _But then Gareth hadn't been particularly discerning about the female company he kept. Any woman of child-bearing age would have done…not that having a child with someone like Morrigan was a particularly attractive concept in Alistair's mind. In fact, the very idea of it made him slightly ill.

No, to be accurate, it made him actually _want _to be celibate. For life. A child of Morrigan would be a frightful thing; demonic and just as mean-spirited as its mother. It certainly wouldn't be _human._

_Whatever it takes…_Duncan's voice intoned in Alistair's head. He sighed, hating, loathing and _despising _the fact that the arguments presented by Flemeth in the Korcari Wilds were the same ones that Duncan had said himself so many times. Grey Wardens _did_ what they had to…whether it was burning a village to save others from the Taint or conscripting criminals at the eleventh hour of their execution because they might make good warriors...It didn't matter. Wherever they were, _whoever_ they were, whatever it took.

This ruthlessness was necessary, Duncan had told him. Squeamishness had no place when dealing with Darkspawn, in dealing with creatures who did not know the meaning of mercy or fairness. King Cailan had not understood that concept it seemed. He'd only seen – or wanted to see – the fairytale and not the stain of death that came with the Order. Whether or not that had been merely bravado, Alistair did not know. General Loghain had certainly been convinced and Loghain knew the King better than anyone. It was clear the General resented the 'influence' the Grey Warden fairytale had on the King.

_Resented it enough to betray both his King and the Grey Wardens, _Alistair thought darkly_._

Around his knees, Alistair's fists clenched in anger. Placing the Grey Wardens in the valley to lure the Darkspawn into battle had been Loghain's strategy. A strategy – Alistair realised with a combination of despair and rage – that had always been intended to discredit the Grey Wardens?

_No! _His conscience raged back. _Loghain Mac Tir…Hero of the River Dane…_The man had fought alongside King Maric to _save _Ferelden once. Why would he throw away the entire country now? It didn't make sense…And it wasn't _right. _And yet the facts continued to bombard Alistair's brain ruthlessly. The great General hadn't come to the King's assistance, despite having the bigger army…more soldiers, more archers, more…everything. Did Loghain decide at the last minute that the horde was too big even for him? Hadn't the rebels fought against impossible odds in the war against the Orlesians?

_I don't know!_

All he did know was that all but two Grey Wardens perished at Ostagar. And now…obsessing over a few strips of cloth on a scrawny, dark-haired mage was interfering with his ability to sort all of this out in his head. Or maybe, that Duncan-shaped voice told him quietly, it was his way of avoiding descending into a pit of darkness he might not be able to crawl out of. Once he started to fall, he would keep falling…

"You know, you're getting wet."

Alistair uncoiled like a spring, startled into leaping several centimetres into the air, his arms held protectively in front of him.

He realised it was raining.

"Are you alright?"

He was actually _wet_.

"Alistair?"

How could he not notice it was raining? He was soaked!

"Oh for Maker's sake!" Merran exclaimed, with a roll of her eye. Seizing one of his arms, she attempted to lead him to the nearest tree and some kind of shelter. But…everyone knew in a storm being _near a tree _was the last place anyone should go.

"Are you…insane?" he demanded, digging in his heels. "What if we get hit by lightning? Trees always get hit by lightning in a storm!" It was best to…well it wasn't a good idea to stand out in the open either but…

"Well then, what do you want to do?" Merran folded her arms at him.

"I…don't know…" Alistair's voice lost the will to make itself heard. It was quite a downpour. Both of them were _saturated _and when Mage robes got wet he discovered they got rather…_sticky. _And in the case of _this _Mage, because she had discarded the mantle that would have normally have covered up her neck and the top part of her…chest…bit…because she said it was too hot and she was tired of getting hot under the collar over Darkspawn and…the rain had a way of drawing little lines down her throat and across the top of her collarbone, pooling briefly in the hollow just visible above the new neckline of her robes before…_Maker, fool get a hold of yourself! _He smacked at his forehead.

"Well we can't stand out here!" she repeated at him.

"Well…well…" Alistair stuttered. "We…wet frock! There I said it! And no we can't but we don't really have a choice do we? It's not like we escaped Ostagar carrying a tent and a feather bed!"

"Urgh!" She slapped his arm with the flat of her palm. "Silly! What about Morrigan's lean-to?"

"No!" he said perhaps a bit _too _quickly.

"No?" she repeated. "Why not?"

"Because it probably has…witch germs in it or something!" he explained over a crack of thunder above them. "She'll kick me out as soon as I stepped in it any way!"

"Well, you can't stay out here!" Merran said yet again, stamping her foot. "You'll rust out here!"

"So will you!"

"Oh now you're being really silly!" she yelled at him. "I'm not even wearing any meta…" Her words, cut off mid-sentence were accompanied by her whipping about so fast her sodden braid whacked him in the chest with a loud thunk.

"What is it?" Alistair asked, peering into the rainy gloom.

She held out her hand for his silence, flat against his chest as she cocked her head to the side, listening for something. _D__arkspawn_ he wondered? If it was, he'd know. He still detected the presence of Darkspawn before Merran and right now there was no familiar, sharp-edged buzz at the base of his ears; that un-scratchable _itch_ running under his skin. He didn't realise Morrigan was standing next to them until she spoke, her voice making him jump…again.

"You feel it," the witch stated; Merran nodded silently in acknowledgement. It was only then that Alistair remembered the magical wards the two had placed around the camp. Whatever the two women were listening to was of an _arcane _nature_._

Silently, Alistair reached behind him to his scabbard, drawing his sword and bracing his feet in the mud.

"There," Merran said softly, with the tiniest jerk of her chin towards the trees. Morrigan's staff began to glow; iridescent blue ribbons snaking around the top of the staff. Alistair felt the drop in temperature as the witch's ice spell gathered momentum.

Beyond the reach of icy light, the undergrowth rustled. On his other side, Merran readied a fireball, kneading the flames between her palms as she continued to gaze intently into the gloom.

The creature broke through the trees in a shower of dead leaves and mud. Morrigan raised her staff, sending her blast of ice towards the dark shape lunging towards them, just as Merran cried out, "No!" Her flame scorched a trail across the clearing, melting Morrigan's ice spell before it reached the mabari; the creature finally finding its voice and putting it too good use. It yelped in high-pitched, excited yips, its rear end attempting to get to them before the front bit did. Skidding to a halt it sent a spray of mud over their legs, continuing to splash dirty water as it leapt in relieved, happy circles about Merran.

"Oh my goodness!" Merran tried to capture the hound with little success. "I think this is one of the mabari from the Tower! It's…"

She was interrupted by Alistair pushing past, scooping up his shield as he went. "Darkspawn!" he yelled.

The mabari planted itself firmly by Merran's left side, Morrigan to her right, the four of them forming an arrowhead just as the Darkspawn exploded through the trees. Alistair charged, just as Merran set his sword aflame. Morrigan froze the nearest Genlock and the mabari knocked it to the ground where it shattered. Merran spun, electric fire shooting from her fingertips; stunning another Genlock as Alistair severed its torso from its body. In very little time the Grey Warden party outnumbered the Darkspawn and then there were no Darkspawn left.

Alistair surveyed the pile of Darkspawn corpses, surprised by how efficiently they had all seemed to work together. Feeling as though this 'arrangement' might work after all, he sheathed his sword with a satisfied smile, finding his right gauntlet covered in blood. His own blood. _Well, had better get that healed right away..._He turned towards the Mage, only to find both women fussing over the dog.

"Oh he's hurt!" Merran wailed, hugging the creature.

"_She_," Morrigan corrected, rolling her eyes, but nevertheless kneeling beside it with veiled concern.

"Oh, she's hurt," Merran repeated with the correction re-inserted. "This _is _one of the mabari that helped me in the tower, I'm sure of it. She must have been out there searching for me…oh and in the cold and the rain too…Oh my! This is a bad cut. Best get that healed right away!"

"Um…" Alistair held up his bleeding sword arm, but no one paid him any attention. He cast the hound a keen look. The creature had rolled onto its back in a blatant attempt to cajole a stomach scratch; hardly the actions of a _wounded _beast…

"Can we make a poultice for her?" Alistair heard Merran say. "It'd be awful if she got infected."

"My supplies _were _intended for human use…" the witch began.

Alistair held up his hand again. "Excuse me? Losing blood here."

"But I suppose, if you are willing to replace the ingredients, you may use them," Morrigan continued, the two still ignoring him. Alistair stared in disbelief, though he supposed he should know better. Just when he started to think things might not be so bad after all with his companions and…oh, was he starting to feel a little faint? No…It was only a deep cut. Barely even…_oh look, I can see the bone in there…ah, ha, ha, ha…_As for the hound, apart from being covered in mud, Alistair could see little more than a few scratches and some old, badly healed scars.

"Poor widdle snookie-ookums, you have a boo-boo, haven't you? Oosa clever little girl? You are! Oh yes you are…!"

With a sigh, Alistair reached into his belt pouch for the tiny wad of the remains of an old poultice and some strips of stained bandage, glad for the fact that Grey Wardens healed unnaturally fast. He sighed, retreating to the base of an old, twisted tree. Lightning crackled above them as he lowered himself to the ground. As for the others…Merran was holding the skirts of her robes over the dog, trying to keep it dry. It exposed half a slender, pale leg, but this time Alistair did not care. They could be toothpicks for all he was concerned.

Binding his wound, he began working on his _List_ again.

-oo-

He was being watched. He was sure of it. And from the sound of the snuffling, it was probably…Alistair spun with a shout; "_What_?"

It was the…_creature. _Again. Alistair backed away warily; well aware that a _dog _should not be able to bat its eyelashes at a human. But she was. Merran had told him cheerfully that the mabari had taken a bit of a liking to him but…sneaking up on him? Lying in wait to trip him up and then attempting to stick its muzzle in his crotch? That wasn't 'like', it was some kind of creepy, canine obsession. Even Morrigan had noticed, making some sarcastic comment about how he should enjoy the attention seeing as the contents of his codpiece weren't likely to appeal to anything other than a dog.

"Shoo! Away with you!" With one hand over his manly parts he waved at the mabari with the other. It lunged at him, knocking him backwards. What followed was the inevitable battle for ownership of equipment that was still _attached to him. _Scrambling to his feet, he took the unprecedented act of seeking protection from Merran, _desperate _for some kind of intervention.

"Oh…Alistair…!" Wooden bowls went flying, along with whatever herb she had been carefully pulverising. "I'd almost finished. What…what are you doing to my poor ookie wookums?"

"What am I…? Maker's breath woman!" Alistair grasped the Mage by the shoulders, placing her quite firmly between himself and the battle hound. "Your dog keeps being…_wet _at me. Make it stop."

Merran rolled her eyes at this claim. "Oh you're being such a baby, Alistair…" Wriggling her fingers affectionately at the mabari, she added, "Isn't he, pookie snookie Cullen-kins?"

Alistair made a face. "I may throw up on you," he told her.

"And I may throw up on _all_ of you," Morrigan informed them tartly as she strode past. Her nose wrinkled at the hound. "A state most likely if the _smell _from this creature does not abate." She reserved a particularly cold stare for Alistair. "From the both of you."

Alistair wisely waited until the witch had her back turned on them before poking his tongue at her. "Huh, what does she know? My last bath was only Tuesday," he pouted. "Wait," he frowned suddenly, his brain starting to catch up. "You named the dog _Cullen_?"

The fact that Merran's cheeks turned a bright shade of red told Alistair a very long and most _interesting _story about this particular tidbit of information. Nor did she answer, raising her chin and walking away, nose in the air.

"Oh ho!" Alistair skipped after her, the thought of winning points for a change (instead of losing them) spurring him onwards. "Ooh! Is Cullen some kind of…? Is he a sweetheart of yours? I want to hear all the juicy gossip…! Ha, ha and you named a bitch after a man? What is this? Some kind of twisted, weird Mage-hate-love thing? Ooh, I know! He's spurned you! Broke your heart into little teeny, tiny pieces…"

Whirling, she aimed a pointy finger into the middle of his chest. "She is _not _a…I refuse to say the horrible and impolite word you just used!"

Leaning down, Merran clamped both hands around 'Cullen's' ears. "Don't listen to the nasty, _rude_ man, Cullen. He'll corrupt you." To Alistair she sniffed; "It's a perfectly _appropriate_ and beautiful name for such a magnificent specimen such as this wonderful, dedicated, incredibly sweet warhound."

"You do realise," Alistair said mockingly, "that the words 'sweet' and 'warhound' don't go particularly well together?" _Hey…I think I knew a Cullen once…Except...no, can't be the same person._ The Cullen he knew had been a fellow initiate; a Templar trainee. _And Mages and Templars...together...? Ew, yucky._

"I think you're just jealous," Merran raised her nose at him again.

_Jealous…?_ _Of some smelly dog…? _Alistair gaped at her, wondering why he should feel like a naughty child who'd just been caught with his hand stuck in the sweets jar when they had just been talking about how _she _had been breaking Tower rules. The Circle frowned on their Mages…fraternising. It wasn't allowed. And anyway what did he have to be jealous of? That she might have harboured feelings for some imaginary paragon called 'Cullen', whom he hoped was the not the same person he had known back at the monastery? _Nonsensical! Not to mention...ew, yuck. _And he didn't care a brass pig knuckle about who she had associated with in the Tower. If anything, he should report Merran and this 'Cullen' to the Circle. It was his duty as a…as a…Well, okay he wasn't a Templar anymore…ever…because technically he hadn't taken his final vows and never _actually _became one.

_But still!_

_She's also a Grey Warden, _the stern Duncan-sounding voice in his head reminded him. _With all the rights and the protection of the Order. _Alistair sighed. _Right, no turning in the Mage to the Chantry for disciplinary action – or worse - then_.

"It's because _you _have a stupid name," Merran told him, her mimicry of Morrigan's chilly, _magier-than-thou _attitude failing completely. For a start she was a head shorter than the Apostate and was about as terrifying as cotton wool. "_That's_ why you're jealous."

"I do not! And I am not!" Alistair said, trying not to laugh. "In fact, for your information, Alistair means 'defender of the people'. That's me; Alistair, Grey Warden…_defender of the people._" He sniffed self-importantly at her. "And what does _your _name mean anyway?" He bet it meant 'short, irritating person' or 'annoying, witch fiend' or something similarly, accurately descriptive.

"It means…"

To his surprise Merran looked away, an expression on her dirt-smudged face that appeared both thoughtful and melancholy, though the latter had been fleeting only. Cullen squeezed in between them both; nudging Alistair aside and pushing her soggy nose into Merran's hand. The hound whined in concern.

"It means…" the Mage's mouth twisted into a self-mocking, humourless smile. "_Sea of bitterness_," she told him. "It means sea of bitterness. Kind of appropriate for me, isn't it?"

An awkward silence fell between them. Of all the things he could have expected her to say…Well Alistair had not expected that to be honest. She could have told him her name meant anything else but…and Maker, who would call their child that? Alistair's mother had given him away, but at least he'd gone with a _nice _name. As he pondered the implications behind this the wind blew tendrils of hair across her cheek; fluttering across her face as she continued to gaze expectantly up at him. She raised an eyebrow, prompting him for his inevitable, biting commentary, but Alistair had none.

Thinking the moment had gone uncomfortably long enough, Alistair began to worry too much time had passed to change the subject without seeming too obvious. His rescue arrived in the form of Morrigan's strident voice, scolding them for wasting their time by standing around doing nothing. With a shrug as though the incident had not occurred, Merran turned, Cullen trotting quietly at her side. The mabari threw one, dark look over her shoulder, baring her teeth at him in canine warning.

It was only after his shoulder began to ache that he realised he'd raised his hand…for whatever reason. Not to comfort Merran. Clearly that would have been out of character for him, but…Clenching his fist, he forced his arm back down to his side, glaring at the three females as though it was all their fault. Was he beginning to feel sorry for the Mage? Could he afford to let his guard down around her?

_Whatever it takes,_ the words flashed in his brain_, _reminding him yet again that he – _they_ – were Grey Wardens and that there was a task to be completed. He couldn't afford…_distractions. _And he was damned if he would let Duncan down.

He _owed_ Duncan that much. No. More than that. He owed Duncan _his life._

-oo-


	9. Crazy Loves Company

-oo-

**Chapter 9 – Crazy Loves Company**

Alistair knew he should not have said what he had. He'd been taught after all, that if he didn't have anything nice to say, he shouldn't say it at all. Being cursed with a tongue that had an unerring ability to disconnect itself from his brain and say whatever it liked (whether it was nice or not) did not help, even if the nice lady _had _told them she'd seen a _holy vision; _a vision that had instructed her to join the Grey Wardens to help them defeat the Blight. By the _Maker, _no less.

He could have walked away. He should have walked away. He'd been up all night on watch duty. Morrigan had been even more acidic and vocal than usual at him and at the time they _were _knee-deep in General Loghain's bleeding soldiers. _And_ they'd just found out all surviving Grey Wardens had a bounty on their heads. _His _head. And the _very _nice, red haired lady in _Dane's Refuge _had been a little distracting. Nice, decent, Chantry sisters – in his limited experience – should not be able to dissect a heavily armed soldier that efficiently and quickly but again – limited experience – what did he know? Still. All he had to do was excuse himself and go outside for a bit. Fresh air and sunshine was good for him. The stench of death combined with the smell of several people who'd just soiled themselves in terror were not.

Generally speaking.

And so he'd looked away from Loghain's dying soldiers. Just for a second. His eyes had fallen on Morrigan and she'd been in a half-crouch and Maker, his self-preservation at being caught ogling her assets by accident (it didn't matter!) had caused his gaze to fix itself on the Mage and she'd been doing this strange contortion with her face and _what the Fade is she doing that for…? _And then just inside the perimeter of safe consciousness he'd realised the nice Chantry lady was asking them if she could join them and Merran was starting to look _too_ enthusiastic and…

"More crazy? I thought we were full up." The words had slipped out before he had even been aware they'd been lurking anywhere near his mouth.

It had been bad enough that they'd been said in the first place. Even worse to know that the Sister had been well within hearing range. But that wasn't the worst of it, oh no. The absolute worst of it was the fact that the Mage had tossed him such a _look _of pure defiance, turned instantly into Little Miss Sunshine and exclaimed: "Well hellooo! Nice to meetcha, Sister Leliana! We'd love, _adore _to have you along! Welcome aboard! I love what you've done with your hair by the way!" And the entire time she'd been bouncing up and down like an overexcited cricket on lyrium-sugar, clapping her hands as though she'd just seen a highly amusing pantomime and not – as it happened – just killed and maimed several people, destroyed public property and disturbed the peace.

He supposed it meant that she was still a bit…angry at him?

He also should have known his statement would be prophetic. Sister Leliana and Merran hit it off like flint and tinder at an Arsonists Convention. If there had been giggling before Leliana joined them, it was nothing to the firestorm of girly squealing now.

"Ooh! I just _love _Orlesian _cacao_ _nuts_!" Alistair heard the Sister exclaim enthusiastically. As she did, Leliana's hand 'fell' onto Merran's thigh and he was treated to a pointed look…or was it his imagination?

_Probably my imagination…_

They had talked about shoes. They'd talked about cookery and their favourite dishes and confections. This had,mystifyingly, led to an in-depth discussion about _ribbon_, which had led them back to clothing and _Oh Maker, why won't they stop talking? _Surely sooner or later one of them would run out of breath? Wear out their tongues?

_Andraste's smoking britches my ears hurt. _He'd compare them to a pair of chattering parrots except even parrots could _shut up _once in a while. And Morrigan was no help, having transformed into something vulgarly abominable and flown away.

There had also been talk about trying to earn some extra coin at some point because that had led to their little group wandering back into Lothering. The party had picked up some paid 'work' posted on the local Chantry board. It had been a welcome respite and the reward had not been insubstantial but once they'd cleared off the 'toll' collectors, tracked down and disposed of a few bandits operating in the area, located some lost items for a destitute elven family and extracted whatever needed to be extracted from the largest spiders he'd ever seen, Merran and Leliana had gone back to…_talking. _

"Oh and by the way I just _love_ the way you wear _your_ hair!" Leliana's squeal caused the muscles on either side of Alistair's eyes to spasm in pain.

"Oh that's so _sweet _of you!" Merran's equally high pitched peal of appreciation made his temples ache. "Yours is just _gorgeous_! I simply _adore_ the colour!"

_I can't take any more of this…_Alistair stood up so suddenly, it took several seconds for his blood to catch up to the fact that he was upright. He was accosted by a wave of embarrassing dizziness but if he didn't leave now he was going to turn stark, raving bonkers and Maker knew there was enough crazy in camp at the moment.

Even _he_ had standards.

Both women had paused, their chatter having been interrupted by his unexpected activity. Murmuring some excuse that he was going to go for a walk, Alistair stepped over Cullen's sleeping bulk and headed back towards town. He noticed that Morrigan had returned; her neat lean-to set up far at the edge of the clearing, a fire already blazing despite nightfall still hours away. He did not approach her, having little reason – or inclination – to do so. Even if he had been so inclined, the look of cold disdain she tossed at him was deterrent enough.

_Huh. It's almost as if she blames _me _for the noise…_

Alistair found a conveniently sized pebble to kick all the way into Lothering; the act of directing his little projectile into the correct direction a soothing exercise. He wondered when he had become so intolerant…paranoid even. He used to be such an easygoing person. Even during his training as a Templar, he'd always been determined to make the most of it. Sure, it had taken more than a year to stop resenting the man who'd abandoned him to the Chantry and training had not been easy. He'd struck up few lasting friendships. The other boys treated him alternatively with distrust, disdain and – if not outright dislike – disinterest, but he learned to grow thick skin, along with strong armour around his heart and his head. After a while he started to enjoy the challenge of physical training; of disciplining both body and mind. And it hadn't been all religious education. He was taught history, politics, literature…He'd even been taught to dance and to his horror even partnered the Grand Cleric herself at an annual 'Buy Your Place By the Maker's Side' Ball in Denerim once.

She'd been pretty tolerant of him too, considering how frequently he'd crushed her feet and then accidentally steered her into the fruit punch. The boys back at the dormitory had teased him mercilessly about her choosing him out of the fifty or so trainees chosen to attend. And he'd been cool and collected; informing Carstairs and Gregory and - _oh blast it, _what was the name of the painfully shy, spotty redhead again? - what an honour it had been, deeming their reactions the product of envy. The Grand Cleric might have been a bit well, _old _really, but oozed elegance and propriety. Her hair had still been the colour of new copper too, giving her something of a…_gamine _look that had been rather at odds with her severe Chantry finery.

And he'd been okay with that. He rather liked red headed women. It was so…so…_Ferelden. _Like goat cheese and the smell of wet dog. In fact…he still did. Whether they were strawberry blonde or had tresses the exact hue of a country sunset didn't really matter to him. Leliana had the latter kind. Merran had been right. Leliana did have beautiful hair…and pretty eyes…and such a sweet smile…There was an honest, guileless warmth to the way Leliana smiled…

The name of another red head popped into his head abruptly: _Cullen._

Pulled up short, Alistair had to stop for a few seconds, smacking his forehead for his bad memory. _That_ was the name! But…Surely the Cullen _he _had known from his monastery days wasn't the same one that Merran knew? Was he? _How many Cullens are there right now in Ferelden, _he wondered? Alistair plucked at his unreliable memory again, drawing together a vision in his head of the individual he'd known as 'Cullen'; a lanky young man with a mop of unruly auburn curls and persistent spots. He'd been a stutterer too Alistair recalled, but darned good with a long sword so the old Brothers had kept him on. He'd also been very…devout and hardworking; traits that had led the instructors to send him into service when he'd turned sixteen.

So…devout, obedient, hardworking…hardly the sort to allow himself to become enamoured of a…a _Mage. _The very thought made Alistair shudder with distaste.

_And if he is…? _The thought halted Alistair's progress into town again. _Maker, if Merran had developed a crush on a Templar…! _He gave his head a shake, in an attempt to dislodge these blasphemous thoughts lest they cause his head to spontaneously combust. That sort of thing was just not allowed. Quite apart from the fact that Templars were _trained _to view Mages with healthy suspicion, well it was…it was just yucky, that was all. _Urgh! Why can't I stop thinking about this? _

Looking around for his handy, distracting pebble, Alistair spotted an iron cage with a…_person _sitting in it. Even more horrified by this than the thought of an illicit liaison between a Mage and a Templar, he approached the cage to find that his eyes weren't lying. And…_Andraste's burning sword! Is that…Is that a qunari? _How the Fade did one of _those _end up in a cage? And how many people had it taken to put him there?

As he neared, the qunari's size became even more apparent. The people from the islands of Seheron were described as 'giants', and with good reason. This specimen was an accurate representation of his race; unfolding until the top of his head came into contact with the metal of the cage and then hunching slightly because the qunari was actually too large to fit standing at full height. Alistair was over six foot. Something he was rather proud of and yet the ends of his spiky hair would hardly reach the underside of the giant's shoulder.

"You are not one of my captors," the giant's deep voice rumbled. Uncanny lavender eyes narrowed at Alistair. "I will not amuse you any more than the other humans. Leave me in peace."

Alistair's gaze shifted to the heavy padlock on the cage, speculating. There was something about the timbre of the giant's voice…It made him think of Duncan and grim speeches about duty and courage and the will to keep fighting despite Lady Death breathing down one's neck. The qunari may be a prisoner, caged for whatever vile and heinous crime committed, yet unlike the caged deserter Alistair had encountered back in Ostagar, there was no anger or bitterness. There was only a resolute grimness to the man; a pragmatic acceptance of his fate that pulled at Alistair's sense of justice.

Whoever had caged him intended to leave the qunari to the horde, instead of executing him. It was a…bad idea.

"I'm not here to be amused." Alistair began slowly. "Why are you in this cage?"

"I am a prisoner," was the only answer, slightly peevishly delivered. Alistair was undaunted.

"Riiight…" he drawled, thinking that the solution to the caged qunari could take a bit more time than he might have today. On the one hand, by the time he did return, Merran and Leliana might have run out of things to talk about. On the other hand, qunari were warriors of renown; for both their ferocity and their strength. If this one could be released somehow, he would add greatly their party and their fight against the Blight.

Not to mention...going towards addressing the gender imbalance of their little group.

-oo-

"Do you think we overdid it?"

Cullen tilted her head to the side. A great doggy sigh was exhaled as matter of canine opinion. Having delivered her verdict, the mabari dropped back down to the ground, curling her paws and resting her massive head across them. Beside Merran, Leliana giggled, extending a hand to ruffle affectionately at Merran's hair.

Merran propped her own chin onto her knees. "He was annoying me," she explained to the mabari – and Leliana - with a shrug. "All this 'but I'm a man and I'm here to be manly about it! Never fear, weak-willed women!' Urgh, so old-fashioned."

"I think it's very romantic," Leliana commented dreamily. "That Alistair wants to protect you says something about how he feels about you. It's very sweet."

Merran's eyebrows drew downwards and she pouted. "What is it with you and Morrigan and the whole 'how he feels about you' thing? Haven't you noticed that Alistair spends all his time Mage-hating? When he's not doing _that, _he's _watching _me with this…this _look _that says the moment I break into a cackle or show a hint of a tail, I can say good-bye to my head! If the man had ever spent any _real _time with Mages, he would have found that being a Templar is more than just smiting folk who choose to wear colourful brocade. You know I have half a mind to turn abomination, just to _spite_ him."

"Hm," was all Leliana offered in response; Merran turned to find the Chantry Sister drawing lazy love-hearts into the dirt with a twig. Rolling her eyes, Merran stretched over Cullen for her pack. Locating the leather pouch inside, she tipped the contents onto her skirt. Leliana had very kindly explained what the different colours and sizes of coin meant. They had been paid quite generously for those tasks posted by various folk about Lothering, but after they had stocked up on – quite frankly, overpriced – provisions, a mail shirt for Leliana and repairs for Alistair's shield, there was little left. And…Merran had not told the others that she had had to purchase the stolen lamb for that little elven girl. _That _had taken the last gold coloured coin.

"Still a long way to go…" Merran murmured to herself, collecting up the coins and securing them inside the pouch with a hex against theft. There had been a couple of silvers, along with a dozen coppers, but she knew it was going to take more than selling a few traps and running errands to be able to afford what she had in mind. If they could continue – somehow – to obtain foodstuffs from sources other than merchants and…maybe if Morrigan can make her own repairs to her staff and if Alistair didn't break his shield on yet another Ogre…

_Oh well…_she grimaced. _Better armour for Alistair is just going to have to wait, I suppose._

"Hey…everyone!"

Alistair appeared around the bend, sprinting towards them. Merran noticed when his eyes fell on Leliana they lit up like stars. "Oh perfect. Leliana, I need you."

Leliana rose, but remained pointedly out of reach, folding her arms firmly across her chest and ignoring Alistair plucking at her sleeve.

"Oh? You 'need' me, do you?" she sniffed haughtily. "I believe such a statement requires some kind of explanation." She turned her shoulder on Alistair to face Merran. "Am I correct, Mer-Mer?"

Merran shrugged, her eyebrows rising in amusement at the shortening of her name. She wanted to say she didn't care, but it would have sounded surly. She instead looked towards Alistair. The other Grey Warden _did _look anxious, as though he might actually have something _important _to say. For a change. What followed was a silent exchange of glances between Leliana, Merran and the mabari, all three ignoring Alistair who had begun to hop from foot to foot in impatience. The more the silence dragged on however, the more thunderous Leliana's expression became…Alistair didn't understand. Why couldn't women just say what they meant, instead of this ridiculous _batinton _game of face-making, expecting him to be able to interpret what they were thinking?

_Oh for the love of…_"Look there's this…" he began when Merran cut him off, stepping neatly between himself and Leliana. She smiled sweetly up at the young Chantry Sister, but Alistair was not fooled. There was nothing sweet or nice about the Mage.

"Oh, go on Leliana," Merran told the red head. "This might be interesting."

Leliana scowled at Alistair while she addressed the diminutive Mage. "Are you sure, Mer-Mer?"

Merran shrugged. "Why not?" Alistair heard her say in a tone of voice that indicated she was _amused _for some reason. "I'm sure you'll be able to meet his 'need' just fine." And then she walked away. Just like that. No other reason. One foot in front of the other. Gone. It was almost as if common courtesy had never been part of the curriculum at the Tower of Mages. Clearly. And then Leliana punched his arm, Alistair learning an appreciation for how bony and hard knuckles could be in such an elegantly formed hand.

"Ow!" he recoiled. "What was that for? No, don't answer that…" _No time! _"You have to come with me now. There's this man in a cage and…"

Leliana punched him hard on his other arm. "Ow! Hey, I bruise easily!"

"Then why didn't you say so in the first place?" Leliana demanded.

"What, that I bruise easily?" Alistair stared. "Would that have lessened the violence of your attack…_OW!_ That _really _hurt." This time her glare caused him to shuffle backwards, raising his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Fine, fine, we just have to…Look I'll explain on the way. It's just with the horde approaching and…you knowing the Revered Mother and…Just come with me,_ please_?"

Sniffing haughtily again, Leliana launched her shapely nose into the air at him. "It was about time, you said the magic word…" she told him.

She followed him anyway.

-oo-

"You there, missy."

Merran peered into the shadows, trying to find who'd spoken to her. In the corner was shape huddled like a pile of clothing or rags. It was only when the shape began to move, shuffling towards her with a wooden _tap, tap, tap_, that Merran could see it was actually a person so bent with age, she resembled a two-legged horseshoe. Merran nodded politely. _Just one of__ the Lothering Chantry Sisters,_ she thought.

That the woman was elderly was an understatement; the collection of lines etched deeply into the Sister's tanned, apple-cheeked face was a crowded map of her life to date. Her hair, braided into a thick coil at the nape of the woman's neck was so white it was luminescent; at sharp contrast to the deep brown of her complexion. And the hand that rested on the head of the unadorned walking stick was gnarled like driftwood. Despite the obvious signs of age however, there was little of the ancient about the woman's keen blue eyes, spearing Merran with a sharpness that even the Knight Commander himself would feel proud to own.

The old woman raised her walking cane and jabbed Merran sharply in the navel with it.

"How old are you?" the Sister demanded.

It was an odd question, Merran thought, but she supposed a valid one as any…"Not quite nineteen, I think," she told the Sister. "Why do you ask?"

The Sister's eyes narrowed, assessing her. "Your name?" the Sister barked.

"Merran Amell."

"In'erestin'…" The Sister's shrewd eyes swept Merran from head to muddy foot. "You from Denerim?" she asked.

Merran shrugged, baffled but enjoying the exchange. "According to the First Enchanter, yes." She rather liked impromptu quizzes. Jowan was terrible at them, especially whenever Senior Enchanter Sweeney sprung them on the Apprentices first thing in the mornings. Merran would tuck into them with glee, whereas Jowan complained about the injustice of it all. He always preferred to know in advance that a test was coming up so he could prepare. Merran tried to convince him that seeing as they _knew _how Sweeney worked they should be prepared _all the time_, but did that work? Noooo…

"First Enchanter, hm?" the Sister harrumphed at Merran, her gaze – impossibly – even sharper than before, "So you're a Mage now?"

Merran nodded an affirmative, even more amused by the peppering of questions and intrigued why this unknown Sister had singled her out for conversation. And then the woman smiled, showing a set of perfectly intact, white, straight teeth. Blue eyes twinkling, the Sister gave Merran a mysterious, approving nod. Mirroring the young Mage's stance, she too tilted her head to the side. "You know anything about vegetables, missy?"

Merran met that gaze full on. "As in growing or eating them?" she asked.

"Hah!" The Sister bestowed another abrupt poke in the middle with her stick. "Clever clogs! Never mind. I'm off anyhoos." _Poke. _"When you see that First Enchanter of yours again, you be sure to tell him Sister Maevis says she don't regret what she did."

Merran's smile slipped. Well aware she was staring quite stupidly at the Sister her brain began to make little connections. Connections such as…_This Sister _knew _the First Enchanter? Yes she did! Ooh! I wonder if it was some kind of forbidden Mage-Chantry thing like Jowan and that chubby initiate…Had that sort of thing even been invented when the First Enchanter was young? _

_Wait. A young First Enchanter? No…that would never happen…_

"Hah!" the Sister cackled. _Poke. _"You thinkin' dirty thoughts are ye? Well it can't be about old Irving. Man was _born _old and wilier than a cornered fox!" _Poke, poke._ "You be sure to tell him now, you hear?"

Snapping to attention, Merran all but saluted. "Yes Sister, I will certainly do so."

"Good girl…" Sister Maevis then surprised her by gripping her arm, such gentleness in her bluer than blue eyes that Merran had the urge to give the old bird a hug. The only reason she didn't was because that very sharp walking stick was still well within range and it had _hurt _being poked with it. Another nod and the Sister began shuffling away. As she neared the Chantry doors, Merran realised part of Sister Maevis' lumpy appearance was due to the fact that she had several bags and tied shawls secured about her person, as though provisioned for a long journey.

_I should stop her. There's a horde out there…!_ But strangely, Merran found she could not move. "M-Maker watch over you Sister_…_!" she eventually found her voice, calling after Sister Maevis with no confirmation the elderly woman had heard. The Chantry doors opened, light streamed into the crowded building, blinding Merran a few precious seconds. By the time her eyes had adjusted, the doors closed once more. The Sister was gone, leaving Merran feeling light-headed but…hopeful, somehow.

_Should I follow, _she began to wonder when another voice addressed her quietly. "Grey Warden…"

Merran turned slowly. She recognised Ser Bryant, Commander of the very small contingent of Templars in Lothering and the only 'army' that stood between the advancing horde and the thousands of directionless refugees fleeing from them. Ser Bryant had served at the Tower of Mages once. Most Templars did at some point in their careers; even Ser Marron – currently on door duty - who reminded her a little of Cullen, though only because like Cullen, he frequently forgot to wear his helm.

The Commander motioned Merran to a slightly quieter space in the Chantry. It was only relatively less chaotic, considering the number of people crowded into the building. Lothering was busy at the best of times, so Leliana had informed her. Though tiny in comparison to places like Amaranthine and Redcliffe, the town served as a convenient trade hub between the two larger Arlings, making it popular and prosperous. And now…it was serving as a convenient beacon of hope – however dim – for folk fleeing the southern lands.

Merran looked towards the doors, wondering whether Ser Bryant was aware one of the Sisters had just left his flock or… should she let the Revered Mother know? She cringed at the thought. The Revered Mother stationed here was a pinched-faced, severe woman who clearly distrusted Mages and magic. In any case, Ser Bryant did not give Merran a chance to speak about Sister Maevis, bending closer so his lowered voice could be heard.

"Were you aware that a bounty has been posted on the Grey Wardens?" he asked. "Lothering is not safe for those belonging to the Order."

Merran grimaced. It was old news. Without Loghain's soldiers telling them they were now considered Traitors to the Crown, they would not have met Leliana. She sighed. "I'm no strategist," she said carefully, "so I cannot tell you why the General chose to do what he did that day, but we are no traitors."

Ser Bryant's smile was rueful. "I don't believe the Grey Wardens would be as careless or as malicious as the Teyrn claims but either way…there it is. And with rumours abounding of the Teyrn himself set to declare himself king, the order for your capture or otherwise will carry even more weight." Straightening, Ser Bryant gave his head a regretful shake. "The Darkspawn I imagine, would care little who wears the crown, but you Grey Wardens…I advise you to step carefully."

"Yes…Ser…" Merran murmured, still waiting for a good moment to bring up the subject of Sister Maevis.

"Might I ask," Ser Bryant continued, "What you and your colleague intend to do now?"

"My…? Oh, uh…" Glancing at the Chantry doors yet again, Merran shrugged. "We have Treaties, made between Grey Wardens and others many years ago," she explained, "compelling Dwarves, Elves and Mages to fight at the side of the Grey Wardens, such as we are. Bounty on our heads or no, we _have_ to stop the Blight."

"On your own?" Ser Bryant exclaimed, surprised. "I was given to understand there were only two of you."

"It's a Grey Warden thing," Merran added wryly. "I suppose…if we can get these Treaties honoured, there won't be just the two of us against the horde."

"An army," Ser Bryant enquired. "Larger than the one gathered at Ostagar?"

"Uh…" Merran shrugged. "As many as we can gather, I suppose. The dwarves _know _Darkspawn better than any race in Thedas. They've been fighting them for…for_ever_. And the Dalish…well if we can find them we'd have some of the best archers we could possibly have." She smiled. "And I already know what even a small group of Mages can do to Darkspawn. We might not have the numbers, but we will have talent and experience at our side, if nothing else."

Ser Bryant chuckled. "And you tell me you are no strategist? I beg to differ, Lady Mage."

"Well…" Merran felt her cheeks grow warm, flattered and a little relieved by Ser Bryant's words of support. "And you Ser?" she asked more seriously. "The horde was at Ostagar last. If they're heading north then…"

"Lothering will be next to fall," he completed the grim statement for her. "We realised that when the Bann removed his soldiers to Denerim. We have been fortunate thus far. We have seen only stragglers with no sight of the Horde, but this is but a brief respite. We must prepare the town and its people as best we can."

"You won't be leaving here?" It was Merran's turn to be surprised.

"Moving this many people would be difficult logistically," Ser Bryant told her. "My men are too few to manage so many. And there are children and elderly amongst those seeking refuge here. I cannot in conscience leave those who cannot travel fast behind. It will be our duty to protect these people as best we can."

_Protect…?_ Merran boggled in disbelief at the Templar. "Ser Bryant," she began hoarsely. "The horde destroyed a contingent of soldiers larger than the numbers you have here…not to mention all but _two_ of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden…"

"I understand Warden," Ser Bryant shook his head. "I have no illusions about how difficult our task will be. We will still do what we have to when the time comes."

The sliver of hope Merran had experienced while speaking to Sister Maevis dissipated in the grim shadow of Ser Bryant's words. It seemed the old Sister was doing the right thing by leaving Lothering. Staying here…_This is madness!_ Merran opened her mouth to tell him so, but he forestalled her protest by taking her hand and pressing an object into it. She looked down to see it was a large key.

"I cannot be seen to assist you openly; much to my regret" Ser Bryant explained, lowering his voice once more. "This key opens the large cabinet in the storage room to the rear of the Chantry. It contains more than we can carry, should we feel the need to evacuate. I urge you to avail yourself of its contents; in case anything can be of use to you and your companions." He closed her fingers around the key. "May the Maker go with you and yours." Ending his speech with an encouraging, tired smile and a gallant bow, Ser Bryant stepped smoothly into the sea of miserable, desperate people, immediately intercepted by one of his men with yet another urgent request.

She remembered why she liked Ser Bryant back at the Tower. And it wasn't because he was kind.

_Nobility certainly comes in different forms…_Merran sighed, clutching the key to her chest. Taking a deep breath she started resolutely towards the back of the Chantry, jostled by frightened, anxious bodies along the way.

The cabinet turned out to be almost a room in itself, with heavy wooden doors inlaid with fruitwood in the shape of the Maker's symbol. Merran had to clamber over piles of crates and squeeze through shelving crammed with dusty scrolls of parchment and vellum to reach it, though adequate space remained around the cabinet itself to open the doors. The key turned with little effort, the familiar scent of polishing oil and beeswax wafted from within, wrapping around her and invoking memories of sunny afternoons spent…_playing on a rug while he polished armour by his desk; the dull thud of metal on wood; links of mail cascading to the floor like a gentle shower of beads and the sound of a cloth working across already mirror-bright armour…_

Merran blinked. _Odd, _that memory hadn't come up before…And then she saw what was in the cabinet, arranged on metal and wooden hooks, her smile widening with each discovery.

_Armour_…! Heavy armour at that, including a breastplate, gauntlets; greaves…There was even a broadsword and a mail shirt of much finer links than the one they had managed to obtain for Leliana. Cramming her fist into her mouth against the deliriously high-pitched squeal of sheer joy – they were after all, in the House of Andraste - Merran began working some of the less heavy pieces from their hooks, piling them by her feet.

_Maker bless you Ser Bryant and always keep you safe, you wonderful, wonderful man! _

This…this was perfect. No longer would she have to sneaky-cast Rock Armour on Alistair when he wasn't looking. He could throw away that battered, holey _splintmail _that gave him less protection than a pair of butterfly wings. And perhaps if she didn't have to worry about him wading into the thick of Darkspawn and having his head lopped off before he could yell '_have at you, cur!'_, she could concentrate more on helping the others…and let him just get on with tearing the Darkspawn apart.

-oo-


	10. And Qunari Makes Three

Phew…Thanks again wonderful, wonderful people who read and review. A rose from Alistair to all of you.

-oo-

**Chapter 10 – And Qunari Makes Three (or More)**

"I mean no offence – he is your friend, you are obliged to defend him – but he did _look_ like a Blood Mage. That means some one who practices a school of Magic currently not approved by the Chantry, if you're interested."

Merran rolled her eyes. It wasn't necessary to have the term 'Blood Mage' explained to her, nor did she feel comfortable discussing her best friend and his association – or non-association – with blood magic, but she knew Ser Marron was only making conversation. He'd also offered his time and effort, without being asked, to help her carry her 'loot' back to camp. Ser Bryant had been more than generous, allowing her to claim all but a few pairs of mail socks from the cabinet. Merran had no idea what she might do with that many cod-pieces…spares perhaps? Would Alistair need spares? She didn't know…And Ser Marron was a very convenient pack horse. The lighter items Merran had wrapped up in an old blanket as a makeshift carry-all, though 'lighter' was a relative term.

The bundled items were _weighty. _Merran had had to pause several times to hoist the makeshift pack back onto her shoulder. And with every passing metre, her pack felt heavier. She knew it would have been polite of her to respond in some way to Ser Marron's conversation, finding instead her energies needing to be focussed in keeping herself upright and her feet from tangling in her skirts. If she fell, that load would squash her flat. Not only that, but she was also interested in what Ser Marron had to say.

"Well, perhaps not so much 'look'," Ser Marron continued, unchallenged, "Seeing as there isn't, to my knowledge, a Chantry-approved _description _of a blood mage." He glanced down at her. "Your friend," he began. "He was the pale and interesting sort wasn't he?"

Merran's lips twitched. _Pale? Jowan? _Well, stick anyone in a Tower with little daily exposure to sunlight and see how tanned they got…That included Templars, surely?

"I never _could_ quite figure out why Mages have such an odd preference for flamboyant hairstyles and dress," Ser Marron added thoughtfully. "Well, I know the Mages have something of a uniform, don't they? But _modification _of Circle-issued robes happened quite frequently as I recall.

"Striped knitted hose…elaborately-dressed hair even an Orlesian Grande Dame would not be embarrassed to own…and there was this one fellow…or was it your friend? Can't quite recall the name…_pierced _his ears. Like some…some _girl. _I never heard of a man with earrings before the Circle – well apart from pirates and such – and it wasn't just his ears either, but other, you know…_bits._"

Ser Marron looked at the quiet Mage again. He'd been trying to remember if he ever saw her back at the Tower of Magi, but found he could not quite recall her face or her name from that time. His tenure at the Tower of Magi had amounted to six months in total but it had been quite the experience. He'd never seen so many pretty girls cooped up in one place before. Some of them had been _very _pretty indeed. And friendly. Maybe…a little _too _friendly at times, but he supposed being new he'd had novelty value. He could imagine a bunch of mages would get quite bored with nothing to do all day but walk from floor to floor looking at the same faces day in day out.

The Mage lass remembered _him_ though. She even remembered he liked hot buttered crumpets and mint in his tea; something only his mother would remember and that made him feel slightly guilty. He thought he'd gotten to know just about everyone in the Tower when he'd been there. In his defence Enchanter Amell did not stand out particularly. She wasn't tall, being more on the smallish side. There was nothing in her features to make her remarkable. Nor would he describe her as pretty or beautiful exactly. _Comfortable, _perhaps. Pleasant. Yes, that was it. She looked pleasant. Ser Marron felt at ease around her, as though he could tell her anything and it wouldn't matter much.

"Do the Senior Mages mind that the Apprentices modify their uniforms?" he asked. "I don't remember anyone getting into trouble for it. Perhaps it was all for the best? I suppose you wouldn't be able to tell each other apart, if you all dressed the same.

A strange _fft _noise emerged from the Mage. Ser Marron cast her a sharp look, but she looked so bland, so devoid of expression, he concluded it must have been his imagination. _Well, _he thought, looking at her stained, patched mustard-coloured robes and giving his head a sad shake. _She certainly doesn't fall into the 'modification' category. _Though maybe because she hadn't, he couldn't have noticed her anyway. That yellow made her look awful, quite frankly. A few bows and a bit of lace and some such might have added a bit of colour and made her less…well, innocuous perhaps.

And…Ser Marron's eyes picked over the Mage, looking for any feature she owned worthy of compliment. _She does have pretty hair,_ he decided, settling on the main thing visible from his height and angle. Dark-haired Fereldan girls were rare-ish, almost exotic, though Enchanter Amell was anything but. Still, he did like the way those loose bits escaped her braid to curl around her face. With a bit of that face paint young ladies liked to wear, she might even manage to look half-way pretty and slightly more interesting. And…maybe a bit more like the devious, untrustworthy traitors the Hero of the River Dane would have everyone believe they were.

Ser Marron shook his head again. The Commander didn't have a problem with the Grey Wardens being in Lothering and if Ser Bryant liked them enough to let them take away his spare armour and pig-stickers, then he wasn't about to argue. The General wasn't here anyway, despite his soldiers making trouble with the locals. _They _hadn't been much assistance to all these refugees, unlike the two Wardens. From what he'd seen so far, they'd done nothing but good; getting rid of those bandits and keeping darkspawn well on the outskirts of the town. He knew for a fact that Enchanter Amell had spent her morning with Elder Miriam, preparing poultices for the injured and tinctures and restoratives for the sick, then later amused the children by scrounging up bits and pieces from the Maker knows where to make toys for them; little straw dolls and wooden pull-carts.

It had warmed his heart to see the little ones smiling for a change.

And that other Warden, the one that looked a bit like King Cailan – Maker rest his soul – had cleared that nutter out from the front of the Chantry with little more than a quiet word and a 'please Ser'.

Betrayed the king and left him to die on the battlefield at Ostagar? These two…_children_? Ser Marron had been taught by his Ma to see with his eyes and listen with his ears because the Maker gave both to him and it would be a waste not to put them to good use. He didn't know what happened at Ostagar, but he _did _know what these two had done in Lothering.

"You okay with that pack?" he asked, catching Merran make the tiniest wince.

"The camp is just around here," Merran smiled. "And I think you're burdened enough for the both of us, Ser Marron."

The two of them stepped out from behind a grassy knoll. The Mage paused, tiny wrinkles of puzzlement gathering between her eyes. Struck suddenly by the thought that when she allowed her face to show expression she was actually quite attractive, Ser Marron sighed, following her line of sight to…"Stay back, Miss!" he told her urgently, dropping his load and drawing his long sword. "_That_ is a dangerous creature! Allow me to protect you!"

"No, wait." To his surprise, the Mage stepped in front of him, one hand curling around the edge of his blade. Ser Marron froze, eyes widening. He knew how sharp his sword was. If his own reflexes had not been so quick when she moved in front of him, she'd have half a hand less. Even now, he daren't move, noticing the tiny rivulet of blood pool around her little finger then work its way down the blade already…

"That…that beast killed a farm full of honest, hardworking folk," Ser Marron said hoarsely. "Women, men and children alike...all with his bare hands. The Revered Mother ordered him caged and now he's escaped…" _How, _he did not know.

"We should find out what's going on first, Ser Marron," The little mage told him calmly. "He doesn't appear to be fighting anyone, there isn't any blood or…" Her eyes snapped to the little bead of bright red crawling steadily downwards. "Or…" She gulped, the blood appearing to drain completely from the upper part of her body. "My…my…" She swayed; Ser Marron flinched. The bead of red was joined by another and another…"Ohhh, that'll be my…own…bluh…"

Her hand fell away as she toppled backwards, her eyes rolling back into her sockets. She landed hard on the heavy pack she had been carrying, the sound of metal and wood making a raucous noise that announced their presence to the others in the camp.

Things happened so fast. One moment Ser Marron was looking at the Mage lying on the ground, the next minute _he_ was on the ground himself with that red-headed lay sister on top of him, a pair of long bladed hunting knives treating the underside of his chin to a much closer shave than he could ever have given himself.

"What have you done to my Mer-Mer?" the Sister demanded, pressing the blades closer.

"No-nothing! Nothing!" Ser Marron stammered an assurance, his voice emerging in a nervous squeak.

"She's done it again, hasn't she?" Another, bored voice – belonging to a statuesque, raven haired beauty - appeared. "_Fainted _at the sight of her own blood again?"

"If this cad has harmed my Mer-Mer…" the Sister left the threat unspoken and quite open to interpretation.

Another individual appeared; the other Grey Warden, who gave the prone Mage barely a cursory glance before rolling his eyes. "Leliana," he began. "_Please_ let the nice man up. Merran kind of _does_ this. She doesn't like the sight of blood. Well, I should say she doesn't like the sight of her _own _blood. Gets all…_weird _about it. And unconscious."

"Truly?"

"Pathetically, yes," Alistair told her, because it was embarrassing. Really.

-oo-

_What _is_ all this?_

The Templar had been allowed to return to the village. He'd run all the way back in heavy plate armour. _Must have been something we said, _Alistair sighed, thinking after that encounter with Leliana, the poor man's priority must gone very quickly from assisting the Grey Wardens to finding a clean pair of drawers. After he'd gone, Alistair had sat down to sort through the piles the Templar and mage had brought back from Lothering. He was surprised by what the cloth bundles held. How Merran managed to obtain a full set of armour and a broadsword was beyond him. Still, he wasn't going to suggest returning them. Why, he'd been in the middle of trying to work out how to outfit Sten when Merran and that Templar had arrived.

Alistair tossed a glance at Leliana, his attention for the moment arrested by the sight of both lay sister and mage on the other side of their camp fire. Once she had accepted their explanation about Merran's reaction to the sight of her own blood, Leliana had taken charge of the situation; extracting the unconscious mage from the bag of treasures to attend to her wound. It hadn't been so bad. Morrigan had been able to seal the wound in seconds, but Leliana insisted on cradling Merran's head in her lap, watching over her until Merran awoke. It was a nice picture; Leliana sitting by the fire humming softly something sweet and lyrical as she stroked Merran's hair. Alistair allowed himself a few moments' more admiration. Any longer and he knew he would be heading towards Stalker-territory. One last second and he returned his attention – reluctantly – to the haul of quality arms and armour laid out before him.

"Your mage faints at the sight of blood."

Alistair jumped, startled by the qunari's deep rumble behind him. He hadn't even heard Sten approach; the giant being remarkably and surprisingly quiet for his size.

"And you say she is a Grey Warden?" the qunari added, looking both puzzled and disgusted. "How can a mage be a Grey Warden?"

"Anyone can be a Grey Warden!" Leliana's head snapped up, overhearing the conversation and deciding _someone _had better step in to defend her Mer-Mer. Alistair sunk his chin onto a hand; _ooh! Her eyes sparkle like jewels when she's angry. I like it_.

"It matters not who they are," Leliana added stiffly. "Grey Wardens are not measured by their title or the status of their birth but by their spirit; their bravery and their determination to battle the Blight…Men and women like Merran Amell; noble in thought and deed."

A snowy eyebrow cocked sceptically on the qunari's forehead. "You claim she can fight while comatose?" he asked. "That would be quite an achievement."

"Well of course not!" Leliana, the Grey Warden expert sparkled again at the giant. "Of _course _she'd be wide awake for fighting purposes."

"Were we to be attacked now," Sten argued. "She will wake? Is this your reasoning?"

"Well I…_never…_" Leliana pouted. Alistair admired some more. In Leliana's lap, Merran twitched.

"We qunari leash our mages," Sten explained to anyone who might be interested, though Alistair found he was the only one. "And we cut out their tongues."

"Then you admit that you…" Leliana began when Merran sat up suddenly. There was a sickening crunch as the top of the mage's head connected with Leliana's jaw. Alistair winced in sympathy, his hands flying to his own mouth as the bridge of Leliana's nose wrinkled. Her eyes began to water; as did Alistair's. Meanwhile Merran gazed around, eyes blinking rapidly while she tried to regain her bearings.

"Hey," she asked. "Where did Ser Marron go?" Then; "Ooh! It's night time! When did it become night time?"

"After the sun went down actually," Alistair informed her helpfully. Merran ignored him. She had noticed Leliana's pained expression and realised something was _up._

"Leliana," Merran peered at the other woman. "You're very quiet. You alright?"

Leliana's response was a tiny whimper. "Ah," Merran nodded. "I see. Say 'ah' and I'll fix it." Obediently, Leliana opened her mouth; the lay sister exhaling a long sigh of relief when the pain disappeared.

Alistair rose. He cleared his throat. "So…" he murmured to Sten. "You really cut out mages' tongues?" And would an idea like that catch on in Ferelden? Well, the Circle made Tranquil, didn't they? Mages without their magic muscle (or whatever they did to make them Tranquil) were a tad creepy. Mages who couldn't chatter on endlessly about never ending nothings because they didn't have tongues? Oh, he could think of a few people who'd support something like that. In fact, he'd be quite happy to start a petition. Or something.

Leliana punched him.

"Ow!" Alistair howled, rubbing his stinging arm. "Why do you keep doing that?" Surely he hadn't been thinking out loud? Leliana deliberately did not respond, busying herself in checking for broken nails. She had hit him in the unprotected area below his shoulder guard and knew exactly how much pain she had just inflicted on him…absolutely none. He was being a big baby.

"I just felt like it," she sniffed.

"Well can you _feel_ like hitting someone else next time?" he requested, pouting.

"You want there to be a next time?" Leliana enquired, looking up at him from beneath impossibly long eyelashes with deceptive softness.

"No thank you," he said firmly, then turned his attention to other things. "Anyway Merran, what _is _all this?"

Merran scuttled over obediently, pleased that Alistair had already begun sorting through the items she and Ser Marron had brought back with them. She pointed to the chest plate, "Oh, this is for you."

It was Alistair's turn to blink in incomprehension. _Huh?_ So…this hadn't been Leliana's doing after all?

"Your splintmail's been looking really battered lately," Merran explained, lifting up the breast plate with a grunt of effort. "I'd been hoping to earn enough money to buy you some new armour, but we were making such slow progress and then Ser Bryant said we could have _all _of this! Isn't it brilliant?"

Alistair looked into her wide, eager eyes. "Uh," he began. "This…this is Templar armour." Didn't she know? He'd recognised the set immediately. Even if the burning sword of Andraste hadn't been clearly embossed on the front and the Maker's blazing sun etched onto everything else, he knew the style. Maker, how many of these had he been made to polish in his days at the monastery? He'd been dreading the day he'd actually get to wear the official Templar armour and celebrated when Duncan managed to conscript him before he took his actual vows. Wearing Templar armour? Was that even allowed for someone like him?

"You don't like it?" Merran asked in a small, uncertain voice.

"Of _course_ he likes it!" Leliana enveloped Merran in a comforting hug, her blue eyes blazing at Alistair in annoyance over the top of Merran's head. It was meant to be a sisterly gesture, he was sure, but when Leliana _nuzzled _Merran's hair like that it made him feel a bit…odd.

"This is a wonderful thought Mer-Mer," Leliana tightened her arms. "Alistair I am sure, is glad that you went out of your way to do this very nice thing for him. For all of us." Another look accompanied that statement; one that told Alistair that if he thought or said the wrong thing again, she would hurt him in more than just the slightly softer bit of his arm. Permanently. Unfortunately for Alistair, he really didn't know what the wrong thing to say _was, _never mind _think. _And anyway, Leliana read minds? That was impossible. Surely?

"Well, Alistair?" Leliana prompted when he did not answer.

"Oh uh," _What if I just go with 'all of the above' as the only definition?_ That would be safe enough, surely? "Yes," he stated, looking her directly in the eye. "Definitely. Always. Um." He could feel a blush slowly creeping up his neck. It was time to cut his losses while he still had anything to lose. "Love it. Adore it. Oh should I…should I put it all on for you right now?" A nervous laugh escaped. "And never, ever take it off again." _That should do it…right?_

_Why am I surrounded by terrifying women?_

"Are you sure you are Grey Wardens?" Sten grumbled, glaring down at them all from his great height. "Has there been some mistake?"

Merran scrambled her feet. It took a long time for her gaze to scale the distance to Sten's eyes far, far above her. When she arrived finally, she smiled. The qunari however, merely continued to look unimpressed.

"You're a qunari," she breathed.

"You are observant," he responded.

The awkward exchange prompted Alistair to intervene before Merran said or did anything to cause an international incident. Ferelden had enough to worry about with the Blight ravaging the land; it didn't need an invasion of qunari to deal with as well. And…introductions were in order.

"Right, well," Alistair clapped his hands. "This is Sten, um. The Revered Mother agreed to release him into our custody when we – Leliana that is – convinced her that he could be better utilised aiding us in our task to end the Blight. You said it yourself when Morrigan joined us," he reminded the mage. "We need all the allies that we can find and recruit and the qunari are formidable on the battlefield. It would have been a shame if…well, he's agreed to join us anyway."

"Ooh…" With a decisive nod, Merran turned away. She walked the few steps to the pile of Chantry loot, rummaging through the pile until she found what she was looking for. Wrapping both arms around the object, she staggered to her feet, grunting with effort. "In…that…case," she managed, stumbling under the weight of what appeared to be a broadsword – much like the one Ser Marron had wielded – still in its scabbard. "_This_ is for you_._"

The qunari gave the broadsword a keen look, accepting it from Merran and removing it from the oiled scabbard with ease.

"Ser Bryant told me that belonged to the previous Commander," she explained as the lavender-eyed giant continued to inspect the blade and hilt, testing it for balance by swinging it in the air. Watching him, Merran chewed busily on her lower lip. She knew the blade needed sharpening. Ser Bryant had even apologised for it being badly maintained, but a whetstone had been included in the haul. All it needed was a bit of sprucing up…and if Alistair was any indication with his own arms, they would need constant sharpening and repair anyway after each battle.

After a while, the qunari sheathed the broad sword and favoured the little mage with a long, unreadable look…and then a half nod. "It will do," Sten informed her. "For now."

With a squeal of happiness, Merran danced a little jig. Alistair shook his head. Did his fellow Grey Warden really need to be so embarrassing? It was so not cute.

-oo-

_Whispers tickled the edges of her mind. The dragon was close this time. She could feel its wings unfurl, spreading a curtain of black against the starless, scarred sky._

"_You survived."_

_Merran nodded, her hand reaching out towards the gleaming scales impulsively. She knew they had once been golden; hard as diamond and as bright as the sun, but the taint had stripped the jewelled scales of beauty, turning it as dark as its tormentors; its masters. The same hungry darkness that coursed through Merran's veins, greedily consuming life, feeling, thought…Merran could see the flow of the light from her own hand to the dragon until she clenched her fist hard, yanking her arm away harshly. _

_The connection broken, Merran took a single step backwards, _understanding _now._

_"We feed you," Merran stated. "All of us."_

"_Yes," the dragon sighed in her mind, the creature's magnificent horned head drooping in sadness. "I am a prisoner, feasting on my captors."_

_"That's…" Tears clouded the view of the dragon. "Awful…"_

"_Such has been the fate of my brethren before me," the dragon stated. "Surely you know this."_

_"Then I will free you," Merran told the dragon. Surprisingly, the dragon laughed, throwing back its head and roaring into the night sky. It was a beautiful sound, Merran thought; heavy with joy...and pain._

"_You should flee, foolish creature,"_ _the dragon scoffed at her, the joy seeping away to be replaced by the darkness once more. "This place is not a place for mortals. It is dangerous for you to linger. Time does not exist here as it does in your world."_

"_This is the Fade then?" Merran asked, frowning._

"_No, not the Fade," the dragon said, the sound of rustling wings intermingling with the faint clink of metal. _

"_Then…" If not the Fade, then…"What is this place?"_

_The dragon's muzzle curled as it lowered its head to regard her with one blood-red eye. "Do you not know?" it asked. "Can you not tell?" Merran shook her head, fingers of fear beginning to claw at her skin, despite the heavy cloth of her robes. She would not run however. She could not run. _

"_You…" the dragon told her. "Are in my nightmare…And the dark ones…they will find you again. And again. And again. Until you too are like them..." _

_Like them…tainted til death…_

Pain clawed across her face. Merran gasped, eyes springing open…and then her eyes _opened._ Cullen loomed over her, one paw on her chest, teeth bared and growling.

Merran took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's…It's okay Cullen," she rasped. "I'm…It's me. Just me." The mabari's nose touched her own then backed away slowly. Merran noticed Cullen's hackles were still raised. The war hound was not so sure…lowering her head aggressively when Merran sat up. "Just give me a…minute."

In response Cullen sat too, continuing to watch her warily. Merran drew another breath. It sounded like a sob and when she wiped the back of her hand across her cheek it came away slightly damp. Had she been crying? No, she…clasping her arms about her knees, she buried her face into them, unable to halt the flow of tears that had been bottled up now for too many nights, the unbearable sadness of the encounter with the dragon in her dreams intermingling with everything else she'd had to hide since Ostagar. Duncan…Gareth…Until her head ached and her cheek burned from salty tears where Cullen's claws had raked across her skin. After a while, she felt the mabari's paw on her arm; a slimy nose squirming through the tiny gap between her shoulder and ear, icy cold and insistent.

The tears ceased slowly, though her nose felt disgustingly drippy. She sniffed mightily, using her sleeve to wipe her nose; something she used to tell Jowan off for doing_. _Sinking her fingers into Cullen's heavy winter fur, she rested her forehead on the hound's shoulder. "Just so you know…" she told the warhound. "I am actually a cat person."

Cullen sneezed her opinion.

Merran smiled despite the running nose and her stinging eyes. She hugged the mabari closer. "Just making sure the slate's clean between us, that's all," she whispered gratefully, the cold edges of her nightmare slowly blurring to be replaced by the chill of real night air and the smell of musty dog fur.

"Oh good, you're up."

_Urgh…_Merran grimaced. Alistair was the last person she wanted to see right now and she thanked the fact it was dark, the night slightly cloudy and moonless. The camp fire had burned out a while ago. The only light came from Morrigan's tiny, magical lamp hanging from her lean-to. The witch still preferred to have her own space and Merran couldn't blame her.

"I was…Well, I've been wanting to speak to you." To her annoyance, Alistair hunkered down on the other side of Cullen. Reaching out, he gave the mabari a scratch behind the ear, causing Merran to shrink away, hugging her knees again.

"If this is about the armour…" she began, grateful her voice sounded – at least to herself – normal.

"Armour?" Alistair murmured in surprise. "Oh uh, no. That's…Well I mean thank you for that. It was very…No, this is a bit…well, _personal._" He was clearly nervous about something, not angry and Merran sighed inwardly. Annoyed, constantly peeved Alistair she could deal with. Nervous Alistair put her on edge.

"Personal," she stated flatly, making a point not to encourage him. He didn't notice, shooting a wary look over one shoulder then the other. Reaching inside his armour, he pulled out a long, thin, cloth-wrapped parcel. Unwrapping it carefully; reverently, he presented it to Merran.

"Look at this," he whispered. "What do you think this is?"

_Is this a trick question? _"It's a rose," Merran frowned.

"Right." There was a hint no, more than a hint of relief in his voice. "Of course, it is. Yes. Of course you know it's a rose. Because you know…it is." A couple of tense minutes trudged past as he continued to hold the rose in front of him "But is it the kind of thing – rose - that a man would give to a…you know, a…sort of a…woman?"

Merran goggled at him. She was asking him _what_? How would she know? One: she wasn't a man and two: she'd never given anyone a gift before. Not that she could ever get her hands on a rose in the first place…and for that matter, where did _he_? So she replied with the obvious response.

"How should I know?"

His outstretched arms made a jerking movement, as though surprised by her answer. "Well, you're a…because you're a…sort of a girl."

_Oh, even better…_"Thanks."

"So," he continued, avoiding – or not noticing, she couldn't tell – her sarcastic tone, "You being a girl and all I thought I'd ask you."

Merran sighed more audibly. Could he not do this another time? Couldn't he see that she was too busy being selfishly miserable? And he was doing that thing again…looking wistful and irritatingly boyish the way Jowan did whenever he needed notes to a lecture he'd missed because he'd been too busy chatting up some girl in the back row of the room or he wanted to swap cleanup duty with her. But…Alistair was not Jowan, she reminded herself. For a start, she _liked _Jowan. He was the closest thing to family; a brother. Alistair was some…ex-Templar reject she'd picked up somewhere…Oh but…_Argh! Does he have to make the puppy dog eyes? Why do they _do _that? It's so unfair!_

And…As roses went it was a beautiful specimen; cut inexpertly from its stem, it had still been thoughtfully de-thorned. Did he do that, she wondered? Or did he get someone else to do it? Merran found she could not find anything mean to say. All she could be was honest.

"It's beautiful Alistair," she told him. "Any girl would love to receive something so perfect." _Unless she's allergic_.

His head drooped as he exhaled his pent-up lungful of air. "Oh, thank you! I'm so glad. I didn't know whether she'd…I mean the _person_ that I'd like to give it to isn't quite…ready for something like this so…" _Puppy dog eyes. Again. _"And you're a _mage, _so I was also wondering…"

"You want me to preserve it with magic?" Merran asked, quashing the faint impulse to tell him she didn't know any preservation spells and then send him to _Morrigan. _Well…for all she knew it was Morrigan that he intended to give it to…Or not. It certainly wasn't for _her, _or he wouldn't be here asking her advice about it. Which pretty much left…_Huh…Leliana, hm? _Which was even more baffling as Merran was quite sure the lovely lay sister hadn't given him much encouragement either. _Oh…whatever…! _If she didn't do this for him, he might not leave…Touching the rose, Merran muttered the same preservation spell she used to keep her herbs fresh. The rose glowed luminescent green before fading dark once more.

"Done," Merran informed him. "Just keep it wrapped up, don't sit on it or anything and it'll keep."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

A minute passed then another and another. _Why isn't he leaving? _Should she tell him to go away? Yawn pointedly? Yell 'fire!'?

"So…" he surprised her by asking. "I guess your Templar sweetheart's given you entire hothouses of these things, huh?" _Eh, what?_

"No."

"No?"

_Sigh. _"He gave me a box of Orlesian _cacao_ chips once."

"There you go," Alistair said triumphantly. "It must be true love."

"He'd won it as a prize," Merran continued as though he hadn't spoken. "He told me they made him break out in spots and no one else wanted them because they looked a bit furry so he decided I should have them."

"Oh," he said, his balloon of smugness punctured. "I see. I…see…"

Merran massaged her temples. It really was late; and she told him so.

"Oh…oh!" he stammered and…_why this weird awkwardness of all a sudden? _"I guess you're…Yes it is rather late isn't it?"

"Big day tomorrow?" Merran tried another prompt. "Don't want to be tired for all of that darkspawn slaying."

"Yeah," Alistair chuckled. "And you need your beauty sleep…uh…"

"Good _night_, Alistair."

"Right. Sorry 'bout that. Good…uh…good night." He stood, rose in hand and backed away, eyes on the ground while Merran continued to stare. The idiot.

-oo-


	11. Enchantment

Thanks as always for reading – and reviews. Big slices of raspberry white chocolate cheesecake to all.

-oo-

**Chapter 11 – Enchantment**

The Templar armour had looked _perfect_ Merran mused, pleased at how everything fit Alistair's tall frame, though he did not wear the maroon tunic. When he'd put it on over the mail shirt Morrigan had gone into a peal of laughter at how ridiculous he looked…and then abruptly transformed into a raven. Merran had been so surprised that she almost missed Leliana teasing Alistair, returning to the conversation to wonder why his face had turned the same colour as the tunic he wore. He'd taken it off straight after; Cullen snatching the garment out of his hands and dashing about the campsite barking and yipping tauntingly. Later, the mabari managed to somehow drape the ruined garment over her shoulders like a cape, insisting on trotting beside Alistair to rub in the fact that she looked better in it than he did. It had made Alistair sour to everyone, grumbling about being picked on.

As bad as Merran felt for him, the antics of her companions had been a welcome relief. Their original plan had been to head to the Tower of Magi first. It was closest to Lothering and Merran was keen to see everyone at Kinloch Hold again. Jowan would have laughed at the image of Cullen standing on top of the hill; cape billowing out behind her dramatically. Unfortunately – or fortunately, Merran had as yet to decide - a chance meeting with one of the Arl of Redcliffe's knights this very morning had forced them to alter their schedule. The news had thrown an uncertain pall over the group once more. Gaining the Arl of Redcliffe's support had by no means been assured, but he had been a known entity. Learning that Arl Eamon was ill enough to cause the Arlessa to send Redcliffe's knights to seek out a mythical cure was a worrying development. The Sacred Ashes of Andraste; said to have been collected after the Prophet's death by her followers and hidden…it was just a legend. A story told – or so Merran thought – by the Chantry to make their cause more exciting.

If the Arl had developed some kind of condition that could not be remedied by known methods then would he be able to lend his aid? And now his best soldiers were scattered across the country. Either the Arlessa knew something the Grand Divine herself didn't or else the darkspawn and the Blight did not worry those at Redcliffe at all.

And _that _was even more of a concern, despite Alistair's assurances that the Arl took the darkspawn seriously; getting all hot under the mail collar about how the Arl – King Cailan's uncle - would be steaming mad enough over Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar to try and claim the throne himself.

Merran thought it prudent not to remind Alistair that Arl Eamon appeared not to have deemed the darkspawn threat to be enough to have been at Ostagar…She was just too tired to argue. Sleep had eluded her after that dream encounter with the dragon and now her head felt like it had been stuffed with straw, her limbs too heavy to move. If they'd had been able to stay one more day at Lothering…She stifled a yawn, knowing full well that if they wanted to gather more allies, find out what was happening in Redcliffe and stop the Blight before the entire country was overwhelmed they would have to keep moving. Sleep was just a luxury she couldn't afford.

When another yawn threatened to overtake her, Merran instead took a deep breath, slapping briskly at her cheeks. As she did, she found her braid being tweaked.

"Wake up sleepyhead!" Leliana bent down low enough to sing the warning into her ear. "We can't have you snoring at the darkspawn can we?"

"Sorry mother," Merran grinned up at her. Leliana looped her arm through hers, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

"_You_ were up late with Alistair last night," she teased. "What _could _the two of you have been talking about so late, hm?"

Merran pursed her lips, thinking. Would Alistair forgive her if she told the young Sister that the topic of discussion had been about her? _Probably not_. He'd be hurt, feel betrayed and he'd never let her live it down. "You, actually," Merran told the redhead without any remorse whatsoever.

Leliana's eyebrows jumped in surprise. "Me?" she asked.

"Oh yes," Merran explained, eyes darting about hoping they were out of earshot of their topic of conversation. "He likes you. A lot. Big crush I would say. Probably thinking of your childrens' names as we speak".

Leliana frowned, one gloved finger tapping thoughtfully on her chin. "That does not sound right," she murmured. "In fact, I thought…" she mused, turning her head. Merran harrumphed, realising Alistair had actually not been all that far from them. Leliana's gaze turned critical. "He is very nice to look at," the taller girl said approvingly. "Athletic men usually are. He is also quite handsome; the picture of a noble hero with a tortured past, but…" Leliana smiled down at Merran. "I must tell you that I _much _prefer brunettes."

_Brunettes, really? _Well that was disappointing. Alistair at that moment jogged ahead, still trying to escape Cullen and her billowing cape, granting Merran the opportunity to observe him as Leliana had. _What part did Leliana think was athletic exactly…?_ She found her gaze landing on Alistair's behind and her cheeks reddened. _Uh…okay, well enough of that! _But brunette? Nope. Alistair was more of a…not a blonde exactly. His hair was darker than that. Like the colour of old parchment or weathered limestone not…brunette was dark, right? So whom was Leliana referring to? Not Sten. He was a white. Which left pretty much…_Morrigan!_

_Ooh! Awkward love triangle!_

Merran had begun to rub her hands with glee when she heard a faint voice yelling _help! _at the same time as Alistair called out, "Darkspawn!"

With practised speed the group charged forward. Beside her, Leliana unslung her bow, drawing an arrow from her quiver in one fluid movement. Merran herself had begun to run, Alistair flanking her other side. A soft murmur and flame flared along the edge of swords and arrow heads as the party approached what appeared to be a merchant's cart in miniature and a wild-eyed pony being harassed by darkspawn.

Merran was able to observe Sten in battle for the first time. The qunari did not disappoint. He was a force of nature; efficient and ruthless. And he and Alistair made quite a team, the two of them cutting through the handful of hurlocks and two genlocks before the darkspawn realised they were being opposed. That left an emissary, partially obscured behind a gnarled tree, alongside a couple of archers…

"Wake up sleepyhead!" Leliana's voice called out a half-second after an arrow grazed Merran's cheek. The arrow skimmed past her ear to embed itself in a tree trunk behind her. Blinking, Merran spun, taking aim at the darkspawn archer with an ice spell. Barely a second later there was only half a genlock and Alistair standing with his sword raised behind it. Kicking the darkspawn's torso aside, he advanced on the mage Warden.

"For the Maker's sake, woman, pay attention!" he bellowed, knocking her aside with his elbow. As Merran fell, she realised the emissary had snuck up behind her. Alistair made little work of the creature, carving its head from its body with an accompanying, artistic spurt of tainted blood. Stepping over the carcass, he scanned the area, shouldering his shield and casting Merran a dark look. He'd just opened his mouth on a scathing scold when Cullen, standing at the cart, gave two urgent barks.

"Cullen…" she rushed forward. "What's…?" A pair of bright blue eyes peeked out at her from a hollow beneath the upended cart. _Survivors! _Bracing her hands against the wood, she pushed as hard as she could. Cullen jumped up beside her to lend his aid. A moment later a shadow fell over them both. With only a rumbled _stand clear, _the cart was set back onto its wheels by Sten. The giant did not even need to draw a breath to do so.

The eyes belonged to a young dwarf, who at first eyed Cullen with interested delight then fell onto the mabari with happy laughter and a big hug. As he did so another, more elderly dwarf clambered from the hollow.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" the dwarf huffed out of breath, accepting the offer of assistance from Merran. "A mighty timely rescue, whoever you are…" Standing before her, he regarded the mage and her companions with a shrewd eye, lingering a little longer on Alistair and Leliana in particular. Merran turned, curious. The Grey Warden and Chantry Sister were arguing, their voices becoming more clear as their conversation heated.

"Bodahn Feddic, at your service..."

Merran dragged her eyes away from the arguing couple to shake hands with the dwarf…_Bodahn, did he say? _The older dwarf bowed. Indicating his younger companion with an indulgent smile, he added, "And this here's my son, Sandal…Go on lad, say hello."

Sandal unbent from hugging Cullen to stand beside his father. "Hello," he repeated obediently, the tone of his voice sounding slightly…odd, until Merran noted the distinctive bluish tinge to the whites of the young dwarf's eyes and his skin…_Lyrium poisoning, _Merran deduced. She'd never seen a dwarf affected before. On the other hand, she hadn't seen a _dwarf _before either…Returning his grin, Merran winked at him.

"Nice to meetcha, Sandal," she said, extending her hand again. The dwarf looked at her hand wonderingly before clasping it heartily between two of his own and shaking vigorously.

"Enchantment!" he exclaimed cheerfully.

"Well," Bodahn clapped his hands together. "We'd better get this mess cleaned up, eh?" He began looking about, assessing the damage to their belongings. So did Merran; eyeing the cart and little pony with longing. Two little dwarves with no combat abilities were possibly not the best companions for the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden but…

Merran cleared her throat. "You're travelling?" she asked, adding with a self-conscious chuckle; "Well of course you're travelling…It's just that…I don't know if you've noticed but Ferelden has a number of darkspawn running about. Where are you headed? Can we help?"

Bodahn paused in his clean up to tip his chin at her confidently. "Ah well, a bit of darkspawn don't bother us…well usually they don't," he added with a grin, indicating the piles of dead darkspawn about them. "But if the Maker's luck holds, we'll be in Redcliffe soon. No doubt the Arl's knights will have these pesky darkspawn under control. Why?" he added, scratching at the end of his grubby nose. "You have a better idea?"

"You could travel with us, "Merran seized the opportunity enthusiastically, wondering how many of them could fit on the back of the merchant's cart. It would certainly make getting around Ferelden a lot faster than on foot. "As for darkspawn well, Grey Wardens are good at fighting those."

"Oh ho!" Bodahn's beetle thick eyebrows rose. "Grey Wardens! You don't say?" His scrutiny of her companions were even more keen this time, clearly weighing up the size of Sten and his sword versus the risks such company posed. "It's a tempting proposal, I'll give you that, Warden, but…" Merran detected the 'but' even before the little merchant had spoken the word. "I think your road may be a bit _too_ exciting for the likes of a humble merchant."

Her bubble of enthusiasm punctured, Merran sighed. "Well," she told them. "At the least let us help you with your things."

"I won't object to that, Warden. Thank you."

Resigning herself to Bodahn's decision, she visited the pony next, extracting a bruised, floury apple from her pack and handing it over to the beast to keep it occupied while she examined it for injuries. Luckily, apart from a gash on its leg, it appeared just fine. She stayed with it a bit longer. Animals of this kind were rarely seen at the Tower and that only at a distance. She took the time to fuss a little over it, stroking its square muzzle and twisting the unruly lock of Alistair-coloured hair between its ears into a braid.

_Well…there you have it,_ she told herself in answer to the question she'd posed herself before the darkspawn attack. _Alistair's hair is pony-coloured…_She rather liked that. All too soon though, the two merchants had been safely packed and waving them goodbye. Merran bid them farewell reluctantly, stumbling when Alistair stomped past, the edge of his pauldron clipping the side of the head painfully. The words to cast a fireball immediately rose to her lips, quashed hastily when she realised that if she did hurl a ball of fire at him, it might accidentally hit Sten. She instead shook her fist at him, yelling, "Hey, watch it, clumsy!"

"What!" He turned back with a snap, a scowl darkening the face that Leliana had barely an hour ago described as 'handsome'.

"That hurt," Merran stated the obvious with a stamp of her foot. "You should look where you're going! I know you're not used to being wider, but have a care!"

"Well then sorry," he sneered, the tone of his voice implying that he was anything but. He turned her shoulder on her, continuing onwards. Merran glanced back. Leliana had the same scowl on her pretty face, her ire directed towards Alistair's rapidly departing back. Grimacing, Merran picked up her own pace. _Ooh, I don't really want to be caught in the middle of _this _lover's spat…_she thought, wondering about her chances of getting some kind of explanation out of Leliana later. Alistair's anger couldn't be about her inattentiveness earlier, surely? Otherwise Leliana wouldn't be upset too…?

"Argh! Children!" Merran exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. Another glance at Leliana's rage-filled face and she decided against broaching the subject with the lay sister altogether. With a skip, a hop and a couple of jumps, she had caught up with Alistair.

"You know," she began in as irritated a voice as she could manage. "If you've had a disagreement with Leliana, I'd appreciate it if you didn't take it out on m…"

"Mind your own business!" he barked. "And leave me alone!" Lengthening his pace he outdistanced her in seconds, leaving her huffing and puffing in frustration. _Well…so much for trying to keep the peace… _

She eyed him speculatively a few moments more while she caught her breath, the urge to more than fireball him gathering momentum. _Freeze him…no…turn his armour pink…Ohhhhh yes. _Out loud however, she muttered darkly; "Irritating man…" with another stamp of her foot. Unsurprisingly it was far less satisfying than the pink armour option.

_Maybe…later…_

-oo-

The merchant had long gone, dashing Merran's last hope that in catching up to them on the road to Redcliffe, she might find a way to change Bodahn's mind after all and cadge a ride on the cart. She tired, dusty and hot. The thin-soled boots, so perfect for dainty but short trips between floors at the Tower of Magi were almost worn through from so much walking. In Redcliffe, she promised herself, she would find a new pair of boots or…And then Sten walked by and Merran sighed.

Finding a smith that could alter Sten's mail and armour to fit him better was probably more important. _She _could cast rock armour on herself…which made Alistair's little argument about her not paying attention in battle all the more annoying. Her rock armour could withstand an Ogre's mace…which was more than could be said about Alistair's soft, pretty head. It was…

"Help us! Oh won't someone help us? Bandits! Bandits are attacking us!"

_Never a dull moment...?_

Merran waggled her fingers as she cast her impenetrable, impregnable Rock Armour on herself, noting both Alistair _and_ Leliana were the first to rush to the aid of the muddy maiden with the torn blouse…but not the others. Bewildered, Merran paused, waiting for an explanation from her remaining companions.

"You think this doesn't concern us?" she asked them.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at the road ahead. "Tis odd," she commented. "The merchant we met with earlier travels the same road and yet we do not _hear his_ screams."

_Unless the bandits did something horrible to them…_Merran winced, not willing to voice these thoughts in case they turned out true. "Well, let's just keep an ear out then, hm?" she suggested as the sounds of battle drifted towards them. Despite the shouts, odd scream and the scent of something organic burning, the pace of the four; Merran, Sten, Morrigan and Cullen was slow, almost leisurely to the scene of battle.

They arrived to an interesting tableau. As she peppered the field with hexes, Misdirection jinxes and Paralysis Glyphs to help Alistair and Leliana out, Merran tried to locate either of her companions from the confusion.

"It was about time you showed up!" Alistair appeared from beneath a fallen tree, a trail of lightning sparks marking his progress as he ran. He turned briefly…the mage on the far side of the clearing yelped then collapsed from a Holy Smite. A moment later an arrow thudded into the mage's chest. Merran flinched, even as she admired Leliana's graceful fall through the sky directly onto another enemy. The man barely had time to draw breath before Leliana relieved him of his head; leaping to her next target, bloodied blades flashing in the afternoon sun.

"You people had more important things to do?" Alistair bumped into Merran on his way towards another target, finding a frozen pillar of flesh before he could reach the bandit. He swivelled back with a scowl to find Merran shaking ice from her fingertips. He slammed his shield into the icy flesh pillar anyway…scattering half-melting chunks of flesh across the ground.

"That's the last of them!" Leliana called out, already wiping her blades free of blood. In the relative calm, Merran took the time to analyse what had been nagging her about the whole scene: the fallen tree for example had been _cut _at its base. The barrels on the far side on closer inspection had been roped together and judging from the disconnected trip-wires lying across the ground, had been rigged to do something loud and messy. With the fallen tree, the clearing formed a neat funnel over which a wide, rocky ledge overlooked. Perfect for archers. It was, Merran sighed, a…

"Damn and blast…An ambush! Damn Loghain!" The remains of a broken sword were launched into the air by Alistair's metal-shod foot. His exclamation summarised what Merran had been thinking. Should she freeze him too? Would that calm him down? It wasn't as if these bandits had gotten the better of them and anyway…where was Bodahn Feddic and his son? Were they safe? Wasn't that more important? Merran had been about to demand this very thing of Alistair when Sten's voice growled; "This one is still alive."

Merran corrected her trajectory mid-step, finding she had to race Alistair to the qunari's side. Cullen came to her rescue; the mabari leaping between them and effectively blocking Alistair from Sten's discovery.

It was an elf, with neat blonde hair and an interesting tattoo adorning the left side of his face. Unlike the other bandits, he wore armour that was not mismatched but well looked after. Merran thought it quite beautiful, wondering how the maker of the leather armour managed to dye it that particular shade of green and gold. Even more curious now, she knelt beside the unconscious man, one hand on Cullen's broad neck. The mabari growled deeply, not inclined to be as trusting.

"You should dispatch him and be done with it," Sten recommended, although Merran noticed he didn't offer to do the job himself. Testing her, she wondered?

Merran exhaled a long breath. The elf was rather dark-skinned for a Ferelden. _Not a native, but skin colour hardly counts for anything these days. _His utility belt however was what captured her attention. There appeared to be a rather unusual number of pouches and pockets. _A fellow herbalist? _Cullen growled again beside her. _I guess not…_

"We'll wake him up," Merran told the others grimly. "And then see what information he has for us. If any."

Preparations done, Merran sat back on her haunches and cast the spell of rejuvenation. The elf groaned into consciousness, lids fluttering open to reveal eyes of a warm, golden honey colour. When he realised he was wearing nothing but his smallclothes he grinned, completely unfazed by his lack of clothing, the ropes that bound him securely to the rock, the heavily armed people standing around him and what all of this implied.

"If I am having a dream," he drawled in a lazy, accented voice, "it is one I do not wish to wake up from." The look he gave Merran started at her scuffed, holey shoes, raked up her torn, dusty robes and ended with a cheeky wink at the top of her greasy braid. Merran never felt like she needed a bath more in her life; and not because she was actually filthy.

Behind her, Alistair was counting out loud; each number accompanied by the clink of metal. "four…five…that makes it ten knives, two sets of knuckle dusters, six of these snowflake-shaped things, seven glass vials…and this little pouch here that…"

"I would not attempt to handle that, friend," the elf warned the Grey Warden urgently. "Were it to be opened by anyone but me, it would release a poison so powerful it would cause every organ in your body to swell to ten times its size within seconds. You would die a most horrible and agonising death." He had no need to complete the sentence. Alistair had already dropped the pouch as though it burned him, backing away from the pile, skin pale.

"Or…" the elf added with a toothy grin, "It could simply contain my toothbrush."

"That accent," Leliana said through narrowed eyes. "He is Antivan. He could be an assassin."

"Ah, well spotted," the elf said, leering openly at the redhead. "It is – sadly – as the beautiful flame-haired nymph describes; for I _am_ an assassin…In this case, a failed one. Allow me to prostrate myself at your feet in my grief."

"You're already lying down," Alistair pointed out peevishly, still rankled by the pouch incident.

"Ah yes, quite correct," the assassin acknowledged. "If I had known my targets would be such insightful, learned people, I may have turned this particular job down. Alas, my judgement appears to have failed me."

Alistair's eyes narrowed at the elf. "Are you saying that we're stupid?"

"You speak only of _yourself_ surely," Morrigan sniffed at Alistair. She turned to the mage. "Merran, kill the creature and be done with it. My patience wears thin."

"I agree," Sten added his voice to Morrigan's argument. "We have no need of this individual. We should dispose of him as we have the others."

"Not so fast! Not so fast!" the assassin brought his hands up in a defensive gesture. "I agree my life is in your hands, but I would like to propose an arrangement that would be mutually beneficial to all concerned."

"Speak quickly, elf!" Leliana's blades wavered a little too close to some parts that the elf was rather attached to and _very _fond of. "Or know my mercy!"

Merran sidled next to Leliana. Surreptitiously nudging the redhead's fighting blades aside, she lowered her voice."Um, you do know that didn't make any sense, Leliana? Or was there a silent 'not' or a 'don't' in there somewhere I might have missed?"

"Killing him _would_ be a mercy," Leliana explained through gritted teeth and Merran found herself sighing for the…well, she'd lost count how many times today. She turned back to the elf, careful to keep herself between him and Leliana.

"Right, well don't speak too quickly," Merran told him. "Some of us," her eyes wandered coincidentally towards Alistair, "are a bit…erm, 'hard of hearing'."

"Well," the elf began, with a nod of understanding. "You see the thing is, now that I have failed to kill you and your…'hard of hearing' companion, my life is now forfeit. I am – ironically – a marked man, but the opportunity exists to offer my skills to you. Spare me and my life is yours, unreservedly and without hesitation. Of course, kill me…and I am dead which would deprive this world of such magnificence, such splendour, I could not begin to describe to you…"

"What kind of skills?" Merran interrupted him, intrigued by both the elf's rather pretty eyes and his most fascinating accent.

"I am an assassin," the elf re-stated. "I am trained to kill…well. There is an art to these things you know. In addition, I have an intimate knowledge of one-hundred and one common poisons…and fifty that are known only to my brethren in the Crows. I am skilled in hunting, fishing, needlepoint and will look very pretty on your arm…no? Or you may wish to utilise me in other ways…" The elf began – despite Merran's earlier warning – to speak faster – "I can warm your bed, provide a massage…"

"Ooh really?" Merran interrupted, clasping hands together and looking dreamy. "I could _so _do with a massage. You have _no _idea!" she wailed. "I have this knot here that…aw, Alistair…!" Grasped urgently and very firmly by the collar of her robes and hauled off her feet, Merran had little choice but to accept her abrupt change in location. She found his finger being waggled before her nose, while his mouth opened and closed, struggling to find the right words. In the interim, Merran pleaded her case.

"But, Alistair…he said _massage._" She bounced on the soles of her aching feet. "Do you know how handy that could be? He could be our travelling Masseuse…Ooh! Do you think his name is Sven? He _looks_ like a Sven."

"Are you insane?" Alistair demanded. "No, don't answer that. I already know the answer. You are insane. Why, of all that is good and holy would you let an assassin _do_ something like that to you?"

"Well…he could do that to you, too," Merran wrung her hands. "You don't have to feel left out."

"I think I'll pass, thanks," Alistair shook his head in disbelief. It was like talking to a rock sometimes. "Have you even considered what's going to stop him from killing you the first chance he gets? Or any of us for that matter? _I_ don't trust him and I don't think you should. While I'm here, let me remind you that we are in the middle of a very _important_ task. Defeating the Blight. You do remember? Darkspawn; the Archdemon…impending doom and the urgent need to gain reliable, _trustworthy _allies, not picking up every stray and sad sot that comes our way."

"But he's not sad at all!" Merran protested, choosing to ignore the accusation about 'strays'. "He's seems quite cheerful, really!" She grabbed both of his arms, treating him to Merran-puppy-dog-eyes. "Massage, Alistair…_massage_...!"

Alistair stood back, folding his arms implacably across his chest, jaw set in rock. "_No,_" he said, employing his best Duncan-voice.

"Hmph." Merran made her pouty-face at him then looked back at the others. The elf gave her a jaunty wave, Leliana spun her blades from hand to hand at him, looking rather menacing. Sten looked bored. Morrigan had walked off somewhere and Cullen was busily engaged digging a very important hole in the ground. She transferred her gaze back to Alistair, still standing with his nose stubbornly in the air.

_What do I have to do to convince him…? _"He's a boy…" Merran leaned in and nudged his arm. "If he joins us, that'll mean…_Oh_, three girls and _three boys _in our group…" We could have a proper dinner party! Everyone would have a partner at the dance afterwards…"

She could see Alistair was thinking this over. She was sure that slightly cross-eyed expression was his brain working very hard. Feeling her argument needed more weight, Merran exhaled a breath of resignation. "Very well," she said regretfully. "I understand Alistair, I really do. I wonder if we'll get lucky in Redcliffe and find another lay sister like Leliana or a girl…"

He clapped his hands hard, startling her. "Right. He's in! Just let me untie our new companion and I'll…" Leliana leapt towards Alistair, stopping him from going anywhere near the elf.

"You cannot be serious!" she berated Alistair, turning as always to Merran before he could answer with a pleading; "Mer-Mer?"

Merran smiled confidently, her first foot massage growing larger in her mind. A directed fire spell, a quick tug and the elf had risen to his feet, bowing gallantly over her hand…to Leliana's audible disgust.

"Allow me to formally introduce myself." The pretty-eyed elf did not release Merran's hand. "My name is Zevran, 'Zev' to my friends and as I have stated previously; my life is yours; without hesitation until such time as my death releases me from your side or you choose to release me yourself."

Merran giggled coquettishly. "Or I cast a spell on you so powerful," she told him demurely, " every organ in your body will immediately swell to _twenty_ times their size, causing you to die a death most horrible and agonising…"

The elf blinked at her, not quite sure whether what he was hearing was actually emerging from the very sweet and unassuming young woman in front of him. He waited while she paused and gazed up at him with large, liquid brown eyes that made him think of a lost puppy begging not to be kicked.

"Or," Merran added cheerfully, "I could just poke you in the eye with my toothbrush."

_Ah…_For the first time in many years, Zevran felt his cheeks colour. He covered his embarrassment with a salute. "_Touche_."

-oo-

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Merran felt all was right with the world. Zevran's presence was like a breath of fresh air, blowing the cobwebs – and Alistair's sour mood – away. Ostagar was behind them and whatever was happening in Redcliffe could not possibly be as bad as they'd heard. Arm in arm she and Leliana skipped along the dusty red road, giggling like a couple of children. Then they rounded a stand of trees and saw a familiar wagon and pony…

With a gasp, Merran dropped Leliana's arm and sprinted towards the beast, gathering her mana for an ice storm…She raised her arms to strike when Bodahn Feddic appeared from behind the cart…unharmed. He waved.

Skidding to a wheezing halt, Merran clutched at her chest. "Oh, you're all right!" she told the merchant dwarf, so relieved she could sing. "I was worried the two of you had met with another incident."

"Oh well," Bodahn grinned sheepishly. "Had something of a change of heart. You and your friends proved to be quite formidable last we met. Got me thinking there can be no safer place in Ferelden than with a party of Grey Wardens. So, if the offer to accompany you is still open, me and my boy would be mighty happy to tag along…"

"Yes!" Merran managed to contain her happiness to just the one little jig. "Well," she added, still beaming, "We aren't so much a party as a small intimate gathering of friends for drinks and pin-the-tail on the Archdemon, but you are _most _welcome!"

"We won't get in your way, I promise," Bodahn promised, "And you and your friends will have exclusive access to our wares…at a discount."

"Even better!" Merran squealed.

"Well I thank you," Bodahn patted pony's flank, raising dust and loose hairs. "My boy here has his own talents that you'll find useful I wager. One of them Tranquil fellows from the Tower said he was quite gifted. Can fold just about anything into metal."

"Including cheese?" Merran asked. _Oh, this just gets better and better!_

"Eh?" Bodahn blinked.

_Not cheese then?_ "Sorry," Merran clicked her heels together and stood ramrod straight. "Just exercising my long-neglected hankering for cheese…" She stuck out her hand; Bodahn took it in his own. "Welcome aboard, Mr Feddic. We are honoured to have you and Sandal with us."

"My thanks again Warden!" Bodahn paused. He leaned in closer. "So…to business. Can I interest you in anything; spare scabbard? A tie pin? Perhaps a pair of earrings?"

"Hm…" Merran tapped her chin with her finger thoughtfully. "Do you have any cheese after all?"

-oo-


	12. Orlesian Tiddlywinks

A/N: A well known fact: dogs are pretty good dancers. Just don't let 'em drool in your ear folks. Because it is as gross as it sounds.

Thank you so much for the reviews. Special thanks to Bioware for inventing Mabari Dominance.

-oo-

**Chapter 12 – Orlesian Tiddlywinks**

The day was still young – barely into puberty – when Merran concluded her business with Bodahn Feddic and Sandal, leaving so pleased with her transaction, she danced all the way back to the others. Encouraged by her mistress' happy mood; Cullen jumped up onto her shoulders; the two of them quick-stepping along the road together. Alistair watched mage and mabari with dour interest from the rear of the group; Merran's parcel of whatever treasure she had been able to barter from the merchant bouncing through the air between them. A moment later their newest party member intercepted them with a well-practised bow, separating Merran from the mabari and twirling her expertly around potholes and rabbit holes. The assassin dipped and flipped Merran and…_good grief, he's just thrown her into the air…! _

And then _caught _her.

"I do not trust that elf…" a dark voice said beside Alistair, startling him.

Leliana fell into step with him, her pretty face darkened with disapproval. Alistair moved surreptitiously further away in what he hoped was a safe enough distance from her wrath. He did not want to be within too convenient a stabbing distance, though he was allowed a better view of her sparkling eyes.

"Oh!" Leliana's fists curled into angry knots as Zevran and Merran executed one of those really complicated leg things that looked like the participants were knitting a scarf with their lower limbs. Their feet blurred and it was a wonder they were still upright…_oh no Merran's not and…Maker's breath! Look at him go…!_

"Ow!" Alistair rubbed at the spot on his ear where Leliana had just cuffed him sharply…_damn. Not far enough, _but _Maker, _her eyes were beautiful when she was angry; glittering and sparking; her long, curled eyelashes brushing against the pale, perfect skin of her cheeks as she narrowed her eyes distrustfully at the dancing assassin.

"He is dangerous!" Leliana growled. "That much is obvious to me. Does that not seem to you as well Alistair?" she demanded. "She is your fellow Grey Warden and a formidable warrior, but she is as innocent of the ways of the world as a babe; locked up in that Tower all her life. It is our _duty _to protect her, do you not think?"

"Weeell…" _As long as he makes your eyes all rage-sparkly, I don't care_, Alistair thought at her, wondering at the same time how he could go about asking Zevran to teach him how to dance like that. _I mean…look at them! They're like a couple of human – uh – elf and human bread knots! I didn't even think people could _bend _that way. Who knew Merran was so flexible?_

"He cannot be trusted!" Leliana jabbed him sharply in an unprotected spot with an elegant finger. "Such a…a…_predator _cannot be allowed to corrupt our Mer-Mer!"

_Holy Maker he threw her up into the air and…ohmygollygoodness he's caught her again and ouch, that's got to hur…no, no, she's alright. Whoa, she's got _strong…

"_Alistair_!"

"Ow. Again."

"Are you _listening_ to me?"

"Yes, of course I am," Alistair assured her hastily. "Listening. Here I am listening to you…"

Leliana's eyes rage-sparkled some more, much to Alistair's immense happiness. "Well?" she demanded.

"Oh. Oh. Yes," Alistair fought hard to regain the correct subject thread. "Um…dangerous elf, bad, bad…naughty. It's positively criminal the way he…Wow! Did you…? Did you just _see_ that? That was incredible! Oh, I mean…um…the way he just spun her by the top of her head was just _so _inappropriate and – um – bad. Because he's a very bad man. Elf. Thing. Yes." _Was that my life flashing before my eyes? Ooh…short._

The glare Leliana bestowed upon him made Alistair's heart do little flip-flops in his chest. In a good way. Until he realised she was waiting for him to do something. "Oh, uh, I suppose you want me to uh…" He pointed towards the dancing couple. "Go over there and give him a piece of your – I mean _my _– mind?" _And…maybe ask for some tips!_

"_Please_ Alistair, if you will," Leliana's fingers curled pleadingly around the looser leaves of chest plates. "Before something _dreadful _happens."

"Like an archdemon swooping down on the lot of us and burning the flesh off our bones?" he couldn't help asking…"Okay, okay! I'm going…see…?" Backing away, Unfortunately, Alistair did not see Merran spinning towards him until he turned at the last minute. The two of them collided with a cartilage snapping crunch. Merran, the less immovable of the two bounced off, Alistair's arms waving clumsily in front of him in a belated attempt to prevent her from falling.

"Oh, of all the…!" he heard Leliana exclaim in exasperation, rushing past him to Merran's side. Merran however, half-lying in the dust looked up at them all, eyes twin half-moons of mirth. She pointed up at Alistair, snickering.

"Andraste's hob nail boots!" she chortled at her fellow Grey Warden. "You should see the look on your face!" She gave an unladylike snort of glee through her reddened nose. "Or my face!" she added between giggles. "There's a very accurate imprint of my _face_ on your breast plate!"

Alistair looked downwards. His formerly shiny chest piece was smeared with mage-drool. _Wonderful. _He wiped his hand over the image of Merran's face on his armour, only to make the state of the metal worse. He'd spent _hours _polishing that just this morning…

"Funniest thing I've seen all…" Merran continued when Morrigan appeared. She took one look at the laughing mage, Alistair's sour face and curled her lip at the fussing redhead.

"If any of you have any particular interest," Morrigan addressed them. "Redcliffe appears to be closed."

"What?" Alistair ceased attempting to clean his armour, boggling in disbelief at the apostate. "What do you mean, 'closed'? It can't be closed," he told her. "It's a _town. _They don't just shut the doors and put up a sign saying '_back in five minutes'_. Are you _absolutely _certain?"

Morrigan did not bother answering his question, addressing Merran instead, seeing as the smaller woman had ceased her mirth and risen to her feet. "A guard posted at the bridge ahead refuses us entry," Morrigan elaborated.

"Well! How rude," Merran balled up one fist and punched it into the palm of the other. "We'll just have to go over there and tell him to let us in. Even if we have to kick the door down!"

"I like the way you think, my lovely mage," Zevran said, sculpted eyebrows wiggling approvingly. "But alas, I left my kicking boots at home. Perhaps a more stealthy approach is required in this instance? Entire villages are not simply closed for any reason. Something sinister must be afoot. Perhaps if you and I…"

"He _means _you and _I_ will investigate this matter," Leliana interrupted briskly. "_Alone._"

In the middle of the group, Morrigan expelled a loud breath of exasperation. "Have I not made myself clear?" she stated frostily. "The village buffoon manning the _only_ entry to the village denies us entry. We have little choice in the matter." She paused a single heartbeat. "Unless we kill him."

"Now Morrigan, let's play nice," Merran mock-scolded the witch. "It's not friendly to kill people. We came all the way here to find out what's happening with the Arl and we can't turn back now. Anyway…" She tossed her chin at Alistair, "If it gets difficult, Prince Alistair here can just pull rank." Fluttering her eyelashes, she added, "Right Your Highness?"

"P…uh…buh…weh…ngg…" Alistair choked.

"See?" Merran smiled beatifically at everyone. "Man can argue his way out of a pickle barrel. Champion debater. Shall we proceed, Prince Warden?"

All eyes had turned to Alistair, his cheeks – and everything else – reddening under their scrutiny. _Ah…Redcliffe. Right._ He _had _been planning to tell them just before they entered the village, because he knew there was a very good chance the subject would come up but…How did _Merran_ know? It wasn't as if he had told her…or anyone else for that matter. In fact, as far as he knew the only people privy to this information about his parentage he could count on the one hand and they were pretty high up in the food chain…

"How did you know?" he asked, trying not to panic.

Merran shrugged. "Women's intuition," she told him simply. "That and the fact that you look a _lot_ like King Cailan. A _lot._" She frowned speculatively. "Except for the eyes maybe. You have much prettier eyes."

"And you are taller," Zevran commented. At Alistair's look of shocked enquiry, he added cheerfully; "I was provided a brief. A good assassin does his research: _know thy victim_."

"Alistair is darker." Leliana, not wishing to be bested by Zevran, chimed in. "King Cailan had hair the colour of ripened wheat. I did not meet His Majesty myself, but I have seen his portrait. He was a handsome man. Many say he was _quite_ the charmer with the ladies."

"I might add Alistair's nose is not as aquiline," Zevran forged forward, sensing more fun to be had in annoying the lovely redhead. "Not as noble as his half-brother. There is a certain…commonness to our Grey Warden, do you not agree?"

"Oh…thank you _so_ much," Alistair threw his hands into the air.

"Very pretty…" He heard Merran murmur, still looking up at him far too keenly, chin propped on the back of her hand.

"Anyone else care to insult me today?" Alistair decided to throw the floor open to all. "The day is still young after all…" He turned towards the most obvious contributor of his daily pain. Morrigan only shrugged.

"Merran informed me earlier," she told him in a bored voice. "I care not."

_Why am I not surprised? _Alistair swivelled, finding Sten directly behind him.

"I am uninterested in the petty politics of this country," Sten informed him woodenly. "You are a bastard." _Oh, thank you so much for making that sound so much worse than it is…_

Alistair sighed. "Anyone…else?"

"Hroof wuff!"

"I wasn't asking _you._"

-oo-

The nervous young man's name was Tomas. He had been reluctant to leave his post at the stone bridge but the scary lady and the scarier giant had returned with _reinforcements_. He tried to take comfort in the fact that the half-dressed Templar claimed to know the Arl, so he agreed to escort the party to the village Chantry. After that it was going to be the Bann of Rainesfere's problem and he could return to the relative quiet of the bridge, away from these worrying people. There was something about the tall Templar-like individual that seemed oddly familiar however, though in his tiredness Tomas could not quite recall and focussed his attention instead on the pretty young lady chattering beside him. She was a petite thing; roughly elf-sized with rather arresting brown eyes. In between recommending cutting steps into the hill path so that visitors wouldn't slide down it, she berated him for locating the archery practice area too close to the Chantry building as though he'd had anything to do with it. Besides, the barrier of hay bales had been stolen by someone during the course of the night. Was it his fault small children and little old ladies kept wandering across the archery range? Then…_Oh, that's where I've seen him! _

Tomas turned back to the Templar. "Hey, you're King Cailan, aren't you?"

"Eh?" Cailan-Templar jumped, throwing up his hands. "I'm…what?"

Tomas grinned helpfully, reaching into his pocket for his lucky silver. He held it up as evidence. "I knew I'd seen you somewhere before," he pointed to the King's head on one side. "You're a bit larger than I thought you'd be. And uh, more alive."

"Th-that's not _me_!" the Cailan-Templar protested, sputtering.

Tomas frowned at his coin. "This coin says different. 'Ere, am I supposed to bow? Is this your rat's sinew?"

"That's 'retinue'," the spiky-haired maybe-not-King-Cailan-after-all corrected. "And no, that is _not _me."

"Hmph." Tomas peered at the stamped bust of the King of Ferelden on the coin again, holding it up once more for another comparison. "Weeell…" he conceded eventually. "Come to think of it, you are...bumpier than this likeness here. And your hair's messier. Not so stylish and noble-like."

"Guh. _Thank_ _you_."

Tomas grinned again at the not-King-Cailan-at-all, happy to be of service. They had arrived at the doors of the Chantry in any case, putting an end to the argument. Pushing open the heavy doors, his grin slipped. There were more people in the Chantry building than the last time he was here, necessitating the wooden pews to be piled up against the walls to accommodate them all. He paused in the entry. The stone walls might offer more protection against the horrors these people were fleeing from, yet he preferred to be outside in the fresh air instead of this fear-riddled closeness of misery. Even more anxious to complete his task, he led the visitors to the rear of the chapel quickly. The Bann was easy enough to find, surrounded by villagers seeking comfort or otherwise. Clearing his throat conspicuously, Tomas waved at the Arl's brother for attention.

"It's…Tomas isn't it?" The broad-shouldered individual regarded the new arrivals with a critical, though not unfriendly eye. "It's obvious you are not simple travellers," he observed, "Seeing as we have been discouraging visitors from entering our village. I am afraid Redcliffe is not safe," he told them with a shake of his head, wondering what could have brought such young people to Redcliffe even while noting the weapons the visitors bore.

"You've arrived at a difficult time," he added gracefully, "but allow me to extend my greetings to you all. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere and brother to the Arl."

From the back of the group, Alistair spoke up hesitantly. "I…remember you, Bann Teagan, though the last time we met I was a lot younger…and covered in mud."

The Bann peered at Alistair through tired eyes, a flash of recognition crossing his features. "Algernon?" his eyes grew wide. "Is that you? By the Maker, you're still alive!"

"Uh no…" Alistair sighed, "Not…I'm not Algernon."

"Alfred!" the Bann exclaimed.

"Um…no?"

"Alexander? No? Angela? Let me know if I'm getting warm…" Bann Teagan continued with fresh determination. "Aedan? No, wait I think I have it: Adelbert! I'm glad you survived Ostagar! Well, you and your friends are _most_ welcome."

"It's actually Alvin," Merran chirped her two coppers' worth, twin dimples mocking her fellow Grey Warden cheekily.

"Oh?" Leliana blinked innocently at the mage. "I thought it was Arnold. All this time and you didn't tell me? For shame."

"He looks like an Athol to me," Zevran commented, wondering whether anyone noticed his clever pun comparing the seemingly dense Warden to a geological feature.

Meanwhile Morrigan, tired of the waste of time in conversation to-ing and fro-ing growled in exasperation. "His name is _Alistair,_" she snapped. "And by what counts as the universe's idea of a jest, these two are Grey Wardens."

"Well I knew he was a Grey Warden," Bann Teagan said, somewhat defensively. "It was just the name that escaped me." With a roll of an eye, he straightened his shoulders and waved his hand airily. "Well, I know not your purpose in visiting here but if you expect to see my brother, I'm afraid that is impossible."

What followed was a tense account of the events behind this statement: how strange things had been reported at Castle Redcliffe before all contact was lost with those living there. How the village was then attacked by creatures that he could only describe as the walking dead; even during day time, preventing the villagers from escaping the Arling. Some reported seeing the corpses of those they knew; neighbours, relatives…risen from the dead to claim more lives and wreak more havoc. Worse, another attack was expected soon and with so few left to defend the village, nor help from anywhere else, things were not looking good.

The Bann also spoke of his grief at the loss of his nephew King Cailan; and his disappointment and anger at the desertion of General Loghain on the battlefield. "And with Loghain set to plunge the country into civil war, we can expect no assistance from the capital." Bestowing a desperate look at the group, he pleaded; "I hate to ask this of you Avery, but we are in sore need of your assistance."

"Guh…it's _Alistair _and…" He glanced towards Merran; smiling sweetly up at the Bann and wondering _why_. "It's not up to me to make this decision. Though I have to admit we Grey Wardens don't stand…"

"Of _course_ we'll help!" Merran interrupted him. As she did so, she cast an annoyed look up at her fellow Grey Warden. Just because the poor, tired, overwrought nobleman couldn't remember Alistair's name didn't mean they could ignore what was happening here. Stepping forward, she placed a hand over her heart. "We cannot stand by and let more of your people suffer."

"No, of course not." Leliana stood beside Merran, mirroring the mage's stance though Alistair felt the redhead did not have to look so…adoringly into the Bann's eyes.

Surely.

"Anything we can do to assist," Leliana's eyelashes fluttered. "You have only to say the word, Bann Teagan."

The Bann smiled, genuinely relieved. "I am most grateful my lady…?"

"I am Leliana," Leliana told him promptly.

"And I'm Merran!" Merran bounced on the balls of her feet cheerfully. The Bann's smile widened to include the smaller woman.

"Thank you all," he spread his arms wide. "This means more to me than you can guess."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," Leliana purred. "I'm quite good at guessing games."

Bann Teagan turned once more towards the pretty redhead, beaming now. He'd thought the dainty brunette with the charmingly dimpled smile a much needed breath of fresh air, but the redhead was something else altogether. Perhaps when this was all over…

"Well!" Alistair clapped his hands loudly, attempting to bring everyone back from Love Camp. "Seeing as we're all about to go to _war, _I 'guess' we'll just all go and report to whomever you have in charge of your defences and get stuck into it, shall we?"

Sighing up at the handsome nobleman, Merran waved a hand at Alistair. "Yeah. You go do that Angus."

Alistair kneaded his forehead. Squashing the impulse to simply grab Merran and force her outside, he turned. Perhaps it was better she didn't follow him around, getting in the way and adding little to the situation here besides…He sighed. Merran's cheer disturbed him however and he didn't really feel inclined towards disentangling her from any potential conflict with either the Bann or any of the villagers. Still. He would feel happier if she was where he could keep an eye on her so he prodded her arm.

"Merran?" _Nothing._

He cleared his throat and thumbed towards the Chantry doors. "So I'll just go out there on my own and throw myself at the mercy of the walking undead, shall I?" he asked in general. In general however, no one appeared to be listening. Backing towards the exit, he added. "Here I go. See you. Fare thee well, cruel world…I'm going. See me go. I'm right at the door…opening the door now…stepping outside…" His back bumped into something worryingly soft.

"You are a dimwit," the obstacle sneered.

_Oh, wonderful. _"Thank you Morrigan," Alistair's mouth turned downward. _Can this day get any worse? Oh yes it can. Walking dead _and _Morrigan. _"That makes me feel _so _much better...not."

"You are welcome…Amberley."

-oo-

Merran stood to the side waiting for Alistair to finish discussing last minute arrangements with the Redcliffe Village mayor; a sturdy, gruff individual called Murdock. She had just come from the windmill on the hill and discussions of her own with one of the Redcliffe knights, Ser Perth and now needed to update Alistair with the information she'd learned there. She was glad Leliana hadn't come with her. Not that it would have been easy to prise her from Bann Teagan. If lovely Leli had found Bann Teagan irresistible, she would have had a heart seizure at the very gallant Ser Perth and his fellow knights.

_Gosh,_ Merran thought, fanning her warming cheeks with one hand. _They clearly weren't chosen just for their prowess with swords, I'd wager…_

"Why are you sighing?" Alistair enquired as he approached. As he did so, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired and hungry and Merran's dreamy expression alarmed him in ways he was too fatigued to contemplate.

"I just _love _Ferelden men, don't you…?" she sighed at him. "It's great being a Ferelden woman…" She blinked, realised Alistair was standing in front of her and cocked her head to the side. "Well, most of the time anyway."

Alistair's eyelids drew downwards. He knew he shouldn't care, but still there was the _principle_ of it_…_"I happen to be a wonderful representative of the Fereldan male," he protested, puffing out his chest when she curled her lip at him.

"Well you're…" Merran pursed her lips, cheeks turning pink. "Aren't we technically related by blood now?" she asked. "Thinking you're…Blech, that's just so inappropriate! Don't even put that picture in my head. Argh, get out! Get out!"

The look on her face was so hilarious, Alistair couldn't help pursuing the topic. "So you saying my eyes were prettier than King Cailan's; that was just you failing at being mean again? Seems to me you could have a secret crush on me – blood connection or not and it's different blood anyway – I'd hate for you to pine away or anything. Might make dealing with the archdemon a tad awkward. What with you swooning and so forth during battle."

"Swoo…? Ju…!" It was Merran's turn to splutter. "That was just a…an offhand comment!" she argued, her cheeks turning even pinker. Jabbing her finger into his breastplate she glared at the Andraste's burning sword emblazoned on the metal there. "I just said it to…to make you feel better. It didn't mean anything. As I said before, you're practically my brother."

_Oh-ho! _Alistair folded his arms, preventing further assault on his armour. "I see. So as my _sister,_ it's okay for you to make comments about my beautiful eyes is it? Or tell me how witty, charming and handsome I am…" At this her head snapped up though while he expected anger, he was surprised to see wonder in her blinking doe-brown eyes. Feeling the tables being turned and unable to stop the blush creeping up his own neck from her discomfiting gaze, Alistair took a step backwards.

"Well, what I meant was…"

"_Yes,_" Merran stated in the frightening tone of someone that had just been shown all the answers to the universe and more.

"I suppose I _could_, couldn't I? Because…because it would be just me having some kind of sisterly pride in my brother, right? It's okay. Yeah…_Yeah._"

"You know, I think you're missing the point here," Alistair felt moved to point out.

"No, no, no!" When she began bouncing up and down like a bean on a hot stove, Alistair felt nervous. "That makes so much sense! So…So. So if I felt like hugging you or a cuddle, or you know wanting to play with your hair…I used to hug Jowan all the time _and _muck about with his hair and so forth and you know Jowan was the closest to a brother I've _ever_ had." Her mouth turned down in a sudden frown. "Of course I didn't want to ki…ki…uh…" The pink in her cheeks flared scarlet as she clamped her lips tightly closed.

Seeing his opportunity, Alistair went on the attack. "'Ki'?" he prompted.

"Ki…ill!" Merran announced triumphantly, though not without some desperate eye darting beforehand. "Kill. Yes. Brothers and sisters contemplate fratricide all the time, don't they?"

"But not Jowan," he pointed out.

"I had no reason to want to fratricide Jowan, no," she frowned, seemingly forgetting the connection she had attempted to draw between Alistair and her old Tower friend.

"Or 'ki' him," Alistair added mercilessly.

"Absolutely not!"

"Just so we're clear on that."

"Oh, sure." To Alistair's relief, Merran began to back away. "Crystal."

It was then that he remembered he needed to speak to her about her discussion with the Redcliffe Knights. Before she could turn and run, he closed the distance between them again. "By the way," he began. "I haven't seen Leliana for a while, have you? If she's going to be in tonight's battle, she'll need to be briefed." _As would we all._

"Leliana?" Oh and now, Alistair observed, Merran was looking _guilty. I wonder what that's about…?_

"Is she in the Chantry?" he asked and if Leliana was, he had his suspicions as to what might be distracting her there. "Maybe I should go and fetch her? We'll need to talk Murdock's archers, right?" Instead of answering, Merran made a small, non-committal squeak. Shrugging, Alistair turned towards the Chantry. "Oh well, guess I'll just…"

"Ahhh, wait…!"

He found a Merran-shaped obstacle in his path. There was no bouncing. No mocking grin, only nervous hand fluttering and she refused to meet his eyes. "Oh! Barrels! Barrels of oil!" she announced. "If we could set them up at the hill pass, Morrigan and I could set them alight when the undead…"

"That's nice Merran," Alistair folded his arms again. "But what does that have to Leliana? Do you intend for her to shoot flaming arrows at them?"

"…and_ kaboom_! Exploding dead people!" she continued, as though he hadn't spoken at all.

_Right. _He had only to walk on, Merran no match for either his determination or his strength. She weighed less than an ant and her ability to prevent him from finding out what was going on in the Redcliffe Chantry was non-existent; her feet sliding behind on the gravel cutting deep grooves behind them. For Merran's part, her desperation to keep Alistair from seeing what she had seen at the Chantry rose incrementally. Her head still reeled from the sight. Not even the thought of Ser Perth reclining on a bed of rose petals appeared to be strong enough to shift that particular vision from her memory. And she had to stop Alistair no matter what. If he protested to Leliana doing moo-cow eyes at Bann Teagan, who knew what he would do it he found…

"Uh…We…we don't want to intrude on Leliana's very important work ministering to the uh…Ministering to the…"

"Yes? Just _whom _is Leliana ministering to?" Alistair enquired casually, even while he ploughed onwards.

"No one! I mean the Bann…orn. Clearly, the Bannorn!" Merran practically shouted.

One of Alistair's eyebrows rose skeptically. "The _entire _Bannorn?" he enquired. "That's practically the entire country."

"Leliana's very dedicated! And oh…Look, she's with Bann Teagan and I don't think that their…discussion should be…Very important things!" Merran shouted again. "They're discussing very important things! Vital things…oh _please_ stop."

"Well, if it has anything to do with tonight's battle, shouldn't we be involved?" Alistair demanded, stubbornly refusing to back down.

"Well it's…And…!" The vision of two valuable warriors – Alistair and Bann Teagan - duelling over Leliana this close to sunset when the next attack was expected, rose terrifyingly in Merran's mind. She had no idea what kind of a warrior the Bann was and the thought of either man being hurt or incapacitated…There was no way she was going to go into battle with the walking undead without Alistair's hulking, plate-armoured bulk as a shield, that was all!

"I didn't say they were talking about the battle," Merran spoke quickly, her brain supplying suggestions in quick succession. "Did I say they were discussing the battle? I don't…it's…that is…" _Hurry up brain, think of something! _"Orlesian Tiddlywinks! It's a…a…that…thing…"

Alistair stared. After a moment's pause he repeated the phrase in a flat, unimpressed voice; "Orlesian Tiddlywinks? Really? A bit inappropriate given the gravity of our current situation, don't you think?"

"Well, it's a…a…" From the corner of her eye, Merran spied the Chantry doors opening, following by Leliana's laughter. Her case was now desperate as the flash of colour indicated Bann Teagan accompanied the lovely sister from the building. Unable to come up with any other diversion except one, single idea from one of Jowan's horrible gothic romance serials (and despite the fact that she had just denied anything like this would ever happen), Merran found her hands darting upwards to grasp Alistair's ears. She attacked his mouth full-on in a full-lip contact assault, releasing only one hand to crook an arm around his neck.

_There. Secure…_He couldn't turn around. And he tasted like cheese. Had there been cheese for lunch? Why hadn't he told her? That was so unfair! Keeping all the cheese to himself…If it had been her, she would have shared and…_He is lovely and warm…_And the day was rather chilly…_Leliana never said…Ooh! Leliana!_ Merran opened one eye, peeking behind Alistair's shoulder. The Bann held the redhead sister's hand. Looking deep into her eyes, he bent and bestowed a rather passionate kiss on the back of Leliana's hand…for a hand kiss that is.

Only after Bann Teagan strode onwards, did Merran release Alistair, completely oblivious to the fact that she still had possession of both his ears or the look of stunned bafflement on his scarlet face. She was too busy making sure the Bann was well away, just in case she needed to intervene again. After a couple of minutes however, Alistair cleared his throat, finally arresting her attention.

"Merran?" he asked "Are you going to let go of my ears any time soon?"

"Oh, uh…" She'd made his ears quite red. Actually. "Sorry about that."

"That was not particularly…_brotherly_," he said slowly. "You do that to this other 'brother' of yours? Jowan, or whatever his name is?"

"Um…some…times…?"

He didn't believe her. _Obviously_.

"Funny…idea of _family_ you have," he said, turning abruptly away, completely unaware it was in the opposite direction of the Chantry building. And Leliana.

-oo-


	13. Walking with the Undead

-oo-

**Chapter 13 – A Walk with the Undead**

Merran glanced at the faces around her, regretting the impulse that made her look in the first place. The tension and unease she'd begun to feel as the sun began its slow descent had taken up permanent residence in her stomach. The Redcliffe knights, who'd chosen to make their stand at the hill pass high above the main road of the village stood grim as statues. These were battle-hardened soldiers who had fought darkspawn monstrosities and yet the _things _they knew they were about to face unnerved them. Many knew the enemy would be familiar, wearing faces they had grown up with, loved…sworn to protect.

Merran felt nauseous; hard to breathe. Was this how the Grey Wardens had felt at Ostagar; uncertain of their fates? Doubt added to the ill-feeling. Was this small group in Redcliffe as prepared as the Wardens had been that day? Could more have been done to strengthen their defences? Train more people? More traps, more weapons more…Merran clutched at her stomach, trying to calm herself. They'd found barrels of lamp oil and had set them at the entrance to the hill pass. Barricades had been erected in an attempt to slow the creatures and Owen the Smith had been true to his word; turning out whatever the village militia needed. His daughter Valena was one of the many trapped in the castle.

Merran hoped the girl would not be among those they would have to fight tonight.

A rivulet of fine gravel trickled to a stop by Merran's feet. Her attention switched upwards, to Leliana and the handful of archers perched high above them. Leliana's expression was not visible at this distance, but the nod of encouragement earned the redhead a cheery wave, even if cheer was the last thing on Merran's mind at present.

_We've prepared…now we wait…_

Merran gave her head a brisk shake in an attempt to dispel the attack of brain fog and tension. Still, every nerve and muscle felt coiled too tightly, her awareness heightened. Tiny, inconsequential details like a loose thread dangling from a sleeve, the scratchiness of her robes at her back and grit in her right boot felt amplified and exaggerated. The thread was too long, the material an irritant, the grit like boulders…and it wasn't just nervousness, she realised. _There is something _else_ at work here…_Though what? It was almost as though…That sensation mages experienced when passing from dreaming into the Fade was very much like this, except here it felt as though it wasn't just her dream self, but her corporeal body being forced by some unseen hand against her will into the Beyond.

It had been obvious from the beginning that magic was at work here, somehow; from the moment their group had crossed the stone bridge into the village: powerful magic in the hands of one that had not been trained to control it or…worse, had not learned to guard themselves from those in the Fade who preyed on the unaware and vulnerable. The thought made Merran's stomach turn anew. She drew a deep breath; the air rattling in her lungs, wondering if anyone would notice if she slipped away to throw up behind a bush somewhere.

"Here."

A slender hand thrust a vial under her nose. Morrigan's pale skin glowed under the light of the moon; her golden eyes reflecting the flicker of the torches illuminating the path. Merran took the vial and drank its contents in a single gulp. Whatever the witch had concocted sent a shock of ice surging through her veins, banishing the nausea and dampening the unsettled feeling, leaving her chilled, but invigorated, calmer.

"Tis a demon's work, this evil," Morrigan said softly.

Merran smiled to herself, glad to have another magic user confirm what she herself had thought. _Demons…_Demons she could deal with. She was not afraid of demons. They were afraid of _her_. Still…

"Not just demons," Merran whispered back. "There is something else at work here. Something darker." _And I'm really missing my enchanter's staff right now._

Morrigan gave a single nod, returning to the safety of the shadows.

Just in time.

_They came_…with a herald of noxious fume that billowed across the castle bridge and down the narrow hill pass, the stench of rotting, putrid flesh almost overwhelming. Several of the knights behind Merran gagged audibly. If not for Morrigan's tonic, Merran knew she too would have embarrassed herself by now. Then the sound of steel and iron as swords were drawn from their scabbards scraped at the base of her ears. Merran took a step backwards, unaware how far she'd gone until her back met abruptly with a curved wall of red steel.

"Make sure you keep your distance," Alistair's voice growled warningly. "And for Andraste's sake, keep your wits about you!"

The dead crashed upon their tiny group, shrieking and baying; decaying throats incapable of human sound. Merran forced herself to focus on the barrels, sending them aflame and vaguely aware of distant screams from the valley as remaining villagers foolish enough to remain out of doors made their last attempts to find shelter.

"_No different from darkspawn…no different from darkspawn…" _she muttered to herself, hoping that if she said it enough times it would actually be true and then the first wave parted - the knights pursuing stragglers towards the village - and Merran's insides turned to ice.

_Walking dead children. _Even the battle-hardened Redcliffe knights hesitated…before one of them gave a cry of despair…and charged.

"Merran! More barrels!" Alistair bellowed, racing after the knights. Obediently Merran sent a snake of flame winding through the charging men, hitting the last of the barrels and sending it ballooning into a wall of fire. Arrows from Leliana's archers rained a barrage of arrows into the enemy while Zevran danced around the armoured men; a creature of flesh and quicksilver; here one minute and on the other side of the battlefield the next, blades flashing moonlight. Cullen charged, Sten hacked; qunari and mabari working in synchronised, deadly efficiency.

"The lake!" One of the village militiamen sprinted up the hill. "They're coming up from the lake! You must help us!"

Immediately, Merran turned to follow the soldier to the village, her stupidly thin boots slipping dangerously on the gravel path. She hit a particularly loose patch of stones and landed heavily, sliding the rest of the way down the steep slope. With little time to take an inventory of her stinging injuries, Merran sent a wave of paralysis spells towards the advancing dead. Too late…she saw Lloyd, the tavern owner surrounded, disappearing under a swarm of dead and a wail of helplessness. She knew she couldn't risk fire here, with so many wooden buildings surrounding the square, casting spear after spear of lightning into the shrieking, moaning mess of undead. Just as her magic began to wane Zevran was beside her; slicing and dismembering with inhuman speed while she caught her breath and replenished her mana.

_This is worse than the Tower of Ishal_.

There at least, the darkspawn had stayed dead. Here in the village those that the dead had killed reanimated to join their ranks. Merran gave up trying to slow them down and resorted to simply blasting the corpses apart. Flying bits of bone, gristle and flesh on the other side of the square indicated Morrigan was doing the same; the two magic users carving through the undead army horde. It was messy, but this was hardly the time to worry about finesse or style. By the time the dead had ceased appearing from the lake, the sky was aglow with the first of the morning sun's rays. Dawn crept over the waters of the lake warily, illuminating their handiwork from the night before.

The village was a quagmire of death but it was over.

For now.

-oo-

"Here, do you know what this is?"

Despite her weariness, Merran startled, staring at the object in Zevran's outstretched hand. Her lips curved in a small smile. "Your new weapon of choice?" she guessed, earning her a brilliant smile of his own. Inspired by her words, he flourished the object in the air, making a stabbing motion towards an invisible foe with great flair.

He then returned to where she sat, crouching beside her. "Sadly," he told her, "impractical for one in my line of business, but for you…?"

He extended it towards Merran, his smile widening as she accepted the gift. It was a child's pinwheel in green and blue, coincidentally, her favourite colours. She wondered where he had found it, hoping it hadn't been recovered from the battlefield. Perhaps it was best not to think, but to accept…It was a lovely thought regardless. And an unexpected one.

"Thank you, Zevran," she told him earnestly, "This is very sweet of you."

"A mage should have her magical wand," he told her, reaching out with a finger to spin the vanes of the pinwheel.

They had all of them been working since sunrise to help the villagers with their injuries and collect the bodies for their funeral rites. She'd been disinclined to have anything to eat, preferring to keep going until her legs protested at holding her up any longer. The smell of the dead lingered in her skin and clothes and hair and she would have liked nothing better than to jump into Lake Calenhad, except that the waters of the lake had yet to be dragged and she didn't like her chances of being able to bathe alone without bits of people bathing along with her.

Added to that, Bann Teagan had requested the presence of the Grey Wardens and their company at the windmill when they were ready. As there had been no specified time, Merran took the opportunity to sit a few minutes to finally assess and tend to her own injuries.

Unsurprisingly, her robes had torn at the seams when she'd taken her tumble down the hill. It exposed a deep, bloody graze from the top of thigh to almost the length of her calf. For once the sight of her own blood did not bother her. She was too tired and magic-worn to care; using the last dregs of her magic to close the skin around the deep grazes, with a little help from Zevran to clean the wound.

Her robes would take a little longer to mend; time she did not have at the moment and she cursed her clumsiness for putting her robes into this state. These robes had been a tangle to fight in from the moment she had left the Tower and mending the fabric would cause the skirt to be even tighter and more uncomfortable than before. And then…she remembered that Morrigan's staff was looking a bit worn, Sten really needed much heavier armour than his current set, Leliana's bow would need to be replaced and she promised Alistair a big wheel of cheese so long ago, he was beginning to wonder whether she'd reneged on that particular promise. With Cullen's harness all but falling apart and ordinary, every day provisions to fund, there would be nothing left over to buy replacement robes _with. _Not unless saving Redcliffe Village came with a hefty reward. Which she doubted.

She stood, the loose flaps of her hated robes swinging gently in the breeze. It took her a couple seconds more before she realised she rather liked the effect. Her legs were a tad chillier than before, but there was a freedom of movement she'd never experienced while wearing official Circle robes before. She'd have to find a pair of stockings; the rest of the world didn't need to see so much of her leg or her undergarments. Yes. This could work.

"We are expected at the windmill, are we not?" Zevran reminded her, curtailing Merran's exploration of her new freedom mid-twirl. She nodded and he offered her his arm; apologetic at needing to lean so heavily on him and incredibly grateful that he was there to lean on. He must be tired too…and yet not only had he helped her, but had been thoughtful enough to find a replacement for the mage staff she'd lost at Ostagar. It felt…nice for a change, this kindness. It was certainly more than Alistair had offered, which had been a sour grunt before disappearing to whatever work team he'd decided to join.

As it turned out, he and the others were waiting for them by the windmill, along with Bann Teagan and the remaining Redcliffe knights. Ser Perth was there, Merran was relieved to see, but Ser Tristram – the knight who had been the first to charge – was not. The mood of the survivors was sombre but impatient. The night's battle had gone their way, but there was still the matter of the castle – and the Arl – to resolve. Merran had not forgotten her promise to Owen the Smith either, though she hoped the Bann was not about to suggest storming the castle gates with the surviving militia. There were so few of them left.

As they approached, the small crowd turned. Bann Teagan acknowledged her arrival with a smile, Alistair with a frown, giving the pinwheel in her hands a particularly suspicious glare. He opened his mouth to ask her about the ridiculous object when Bann Teagan stepped forward.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet," he addressed them all. "Now that the village is secure we cannot delay any further." He gestured toward the castle. "I have a plan to enter the castle. There is a secret passage – accessible only to my family – from the mill," he explained. "What I intend to do is-"

"Has no one thought to enter the castle this way before?" Alistair interrupted, his enquiring voice sounding mocking against the grave tones of the Bann. "I don't know…maybe to try and stop whatever it is in there before it started…_recruiting_."

Bann Teagan shook his head. "A good suggestion, Alfie and one I would have enacted had the attacks not begun. I could not in conscience leave the villagers to defend themselves," he added, to appreciative sighs of his manly resolve by Leliana. "Now that the worst is over however, I find our situation much more…_Maker's breath_!" he exclaimed suddenly, causing the group to turn to where he stared in disbelief.

A dark-haired woman came jogging down the hill pass. By the look of her clothes – and Bann Teagan's reaction – she was possibly someone important. Merran took a step forward, clutching at her stomach as the most uncomfortable jolt shot through her. She glanced under her lashes at Morrigan. The witch was paler than usual and frowning deeply at the newcomer.

"Teag-ahn! Oh thank the Maker you yet live!" the woman cried in greeting.

"Isolde…" Teagan looked more than a little surprised, and not particularly happy-surprised, Merran noted. "You're alive…How did you…?"

"I do not have much time to explain," Isolde interrupted urgently. "I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over and I _must_ return quickly." As she spoke, she plucked at the Bann's tunic, causing Leliana to take a half step towards the handsome nobleman.

"And I need you to return with me Teag-ahn," Isolde – _Arlessa Isolde, _Merran guessed correctly – suggested next. "Alone."

"It could be a trap!" Leliana said worriedly, completing her step to position herself closer to the Bann. "My lord, I beg you consider this request very carefully."

"What!" The Arlessa shot Leliana a look of such contempt, that even Cullen growled. "Teag-ahn," the Arlessa demanded in her accented, somewhat shrill voice. "'Oo is this…_wom-ahn_?"

To Merran's surprise, it was Alistair who intervened.

"You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?" he asked, with an apologetic grimace. His deference only made the Arlessa look even more offended. Though the look she bestowed upon Alistair appeared more…personal. As though the sight of Alistair was an affront to her existence.

"Alistair…" the Arlessa began. "Of all the…? Why are _you_ 'ere?"

"They are Grey Wardens Isolde," Bann Teagan informed her sternly. "I and the Village of Redcliffe owe them my life. And they are here on my request."

With a simple shrug the Arlessa returned to plucking at Teagan's tunic once more, her words rushed and desperate. "I know you need more of an explanation but I…I don't know what is safe to tell," she said, twisting her hands anxiously. "Teag-ahn," she wailed. "There is an eevil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the leeving. The mage responsible was caught but still eet continues and Connor…ee ees going mad, mad I tell you! We alone 'ave survived but he won't leave the castle. He's seen so much _death, _Tea-gahn. You must help him. You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!"

"Wait a minute," Alistair interrupted again, this time with a scowl. "Mage? What mage? I don't remember there being a _mage _on the Arl's staff."

"Ee ees an infiltrator…I think," Isolde told him with a contemptuous sniff. "And yes, ee was one of the castle's staff." She turned abruptly to Teagan. "We found ee was _poisoning_ my husband. _That_ is why Eamon fell ill.

"Eamon was poisoned?" Teagan demanded, surprised at this new and unexpected piece of news. "Who would order such a thing?"

"Ee claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain's hired him," the Arlessa said, tossing her head at Leliana. "Ee may be lying however. I cannot say."

"And what of the Arl?" Alistair asked worriedly. "Is he alive?"

"Ee is," Isolde spent barely a glance at Alistair, her expression whenever Alistair spoke clearly indicating she would rather not have to lower herself to acknowledge his existence, much less answer his questions. She addressed her response to Bann Teagan. "Ee is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker."

"Kept alive? Kept alive by what?" Alistair persisted, folding his arms across his chest. Merran suspected he was having fun annoying the Arlessa.

"Something the mage unleashed," Isolde snapped, before giving herself a shake and continuing. "So far it allows only Eamon, Connor and myself to live. The others were not so fortunate. It has killed and turned so many into walking nightmares. It wants us to live but…I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you Teag-ahn, because I begged, because I said Connor needed 'elp..."

"I thought you said you 'slipped away' the first chance you got," Alistair reminded her suspiciously.

Teagan held up his hand for peace, before either Isolde or Alistair came to blows. Fixing his gaze on Alistair he stated gravely; "The king is dead and we need my brother now more than ever." With barely a sigh of regret he turned back to the Arlessa. "I will return to the castle with you".

The change in expression on Isolde's face was instant. Immediately she was plucking at Teagan's tunic once more, this time in gratitude. "Thank the Maker!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "Bless you Teagan, bless you!"

"It's not like he sneezed or anything…" Merran heard Alistair mutter under his breath and she frowned at him, wondering how a non-mage like the Arlessa could bring out the sarcasm in him. On the other hand, this _was _Alistair. It didn't take much to get on his bad side. To their collective relief, the Bann excused himself from Isolde, telling her he wished to converse in private with the Grey Wardens. "In case something should happen to the village while I am gone," he explained quite convincingly.

Isolde nodded her agreement, already stepping away, eager to be away from these people and _Alistair, _her final warning to Bann Teagan one of lingering too long and not to keep her waiting. The Bann himself watched her leave until she was well out of earshot before he felt comfortable enough to speak. "This is my plan…" he began to be interrupted this time by Leliana.

"My lord," she began worriedly. "Please reconsider…This is dangerous."

"I appreciate your concern," he smiled at her. "I have no illusions about dealing with this evil alone but all of you on the other hand have proven to be quite formidable." With a quick look over his shoulder to make sure Isolde was not watching he took off his signet ring, passing it to Leliana. "This ring is the key to the hidden entrance in the mill. Use it to enter the castle after I have gone. Have Ser Perth and his men meet you by the portcullis. If this situation is as I think it is, we will need all the men that we can muster. If you are already in the castle, it may be all that we need."

Placing a kiss to back of Leliana's hand, Teagan bowed to them all then turned to join Isolde at the bridge. A few moments later, he was gone from sight.

-oo-

Alistair adjusted his grip around the hilt of his sword. Inside his gloves his hands sweated and despite the leather his sword felt as though it was going to slip out of his hand any moment. He knew he smelled bad. With little opportunity to clean up from the battle the night before and the close, dank tunnel causing new sheets of perspiration to form under his armour and mail, it was no wonder Leliana had chosen to take the lead, far from him. She'd taken possession of Teagan's signet ring like a promise, keeping Merran firmly at her side; the mage trailing one hand along the wall, as though constantly reassuring herself that the stone was solid and wasn't going to come crashing down around them at any moment.

It certainly _looked _like it could.

Directly behind Alistair was the assassin. An arrangement Alistair was not happy about at all. It gave him the impression he was being…_ogled, _which was - in his opinion - far worse than being assessed for vulnerable areas to slip a knife into.

Behind Zevran came Morrigan, simply because she refused to walk ahead of either himself or the leering elf…and after that Sten and Cullen; the final links in their exploration chain.

The tunnel beneath Lake Calenhad was eerily quiet. Excepting the sound of their footfalls and rattle of armour echoing off the stone, there was little other noise, as though all other sound was being swallowed by the darkness. As the party travelled deeper underground, the air turned clammy and claustrophobic. Their torches distorted their shadows into twisted shapes that loomed and played tricks with the eyes…and every now and then he would catch a flash of pale flesh between the torn strips of Merran's mage robes. It was all by accident of course. It wasn't as if he was _looking _on purpose or anything. She _was _walking ahead of him at the perfect angle to show a bit of leg at him. More than a _bit_ of leg. Was she doing it purpose? Trying to be provocative…alluring? Maybe she was trying to kiss up to the elf? He'd _seen _the two of them earlier…conspiring or something. He wouldn't put it past them.

Either of them.

Plotting, most likely.

He didn't envy the elf. If anything Alistair felt sorry for Zevran. _She's a terrible kisser, _did he know?

True enough, it wasn't as if he was an expert on _that_ sort of thing. Kissing. Not that that had been his first kiss by all means. He'd practised on oranges before and everyone knew that was the best way to practice proper kissing technique. His first _real _kiss – with a real girl and everything – he'd wanted to be with someone he actually, really _liked._ He'd been hoping it could have been with Leliana and the disappointment that it wasn't ever going to be made him even more depressed than those flashes of long, slender leg Merran kept shooting at him.

Merran had spoiled all his chances hadn't she? Call _that_ a kiss? Where had the romance been? The…the…not that horrible…face-sucking…_thing _that Merran had subjected him to.

It made it absolutely no better an experience by the fact that she had tasted like oranges.

At. All.

_Maker, this is depressing._ It was quite obvious Leliana was more interested in Bann Teagan. Clearly she preferred older, harried men with large noses and girly hair braids…_No, that's unfair._ Bann Teagan had only ever been his friend; one of the scant few during his childhood who'd shown him any kindness. Teagan had taught him how to swim, to fish and how to read and write. He frequently took his side whenever the Arlessa had one of her snippets with him. He even argued with his own brother against sending him to the Chantry. All right, so the man never remembered his name, but so what? At least they all started with an 'A'.

_Flash._

Alistair groaned softly. So his first proper kiss had been with the mage thing and it hadn't even been a proper kiss. His ears still hurt too. _I mean, what is up with her? Can't she do anything right?_ _And how come she turns up to a serious meeting with a toy in her hand…? Smiling at the elf as though the two of them had come from snogging up a tree somewhere? _And after she'd kissed _him _too.

_Fickle beast._

The thought of Merran _snogging _Zevran made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Did the elf know what he was getting into? Did he realise Merran was a dangerous, insane mage who could turn him into a hopping amphibian at any moment? He hadn't forgotten the pain she had inflicted on him at Ostagar. The elf couldn't be that blind and stupid. Honestly, it was like Gareth all over again.

The thought of Gareth and the other Grey Wardens brought a flash of anger to Alistair's eyes, his gaze boring into the Merran's back as though she would feel it and be appropriately ashamed of herself. It incensed him that she showed absolutely no interest in the Grey Wardens; no concern or sadness for their deaths. She'd just gone on skipping and whistling, in her annoyingly, unfailingly _cheerful _way.

_Creepy._

And she was a terrible kisser.

But what was he supposed to do? Just ignore the incident? He'd have to make sure that she knew that he wasn't interested. Dark-haired women just didn't float his boat. Every single dark-haired female that he had associated with over the years had ended up making his life an absolute, waking hell, starting with Arlessa Isolde.

_Maker, I hate that woman._

He always preferred redheads. Chestnut, ginger, strawberry, auburn; he didn't care. There had always been something about a red haired girl that made him think about running through the cornfields hand in hand with a blue sky overhead and crowds of daises at his feet...or passionate kisses on beaches with the surf crashing around their bodies. Not that…he'd ever _been_ on a beach. Not the kind in his head anyway. The closest he'd ever come to something like that was the gravely shore of Lake Calenhad and unless one of those famous western storms blew up, there wasn't much of a surf. Also making out on a lakeshore with sharp stones turning your bare buttocks into a colander would be _such _a mood killer.

But that wasn't his point. His _point _was...the first chance he could get, he'd have to take her aside and have a serious talk about how the two of them were serious Grey Wardens and – seriously – could not get involved. Difficult as it would be for her it had to be done before she became seriously attached to him, then it would become a _serious _problem because she would be all heartbroken and then he'd feel seriously _guilty_ and then he'd have to pretend to like her so he could comfort her and the way these things always turned out, they'd end up waking up to each other the following morning – _naked _– and it would be _seriously awkward._

Naked Merran in his tent…? _Maker, where the Fade did that come from? _No, no, no, no, no…it was a _bad_ idea. People would talk and point and _laugh_ and it would be just like that time at the Chantry when one of the lads had dared him to lick a lamp post in the middle of the worst winter Ferelden had ever experienced and Mother Brenahan had to throw a bucket of hot water over him or leave him to get snowed on. As it was, no one had actually told her where he was until after supper and his tongue had turned blue by the time she'd arrived with the bucket.

He hadn't been able to talk for a week. _Seriously._

And he'd have to find another word to replace 'serious' in his mental vocabulary because _damn! Does she realise how much LEG she's showing? _It was so inappropriate! The elf's head was going to explode…and why is she running…?

Merran had pushed past Leliana at a sound ahead. The party must have passed completely under the lake and into the castle's lower chambers. There was a long stretch of stone work with tiny cells built into them, barely big enough to contain a grown man.

"There's someone here…" she began; a shrill gasp at the end of her sentence. "_Maker's halitosis!_" Alistair heard her exclaim in dread, panicked tones.

"_Jowan_!"

-oo-


	14. Brother Mage

-oo-

**Chapter 14 – Brother Mage**

With no other warning, Merran had blown the lock on the cell door with a concentrated fireball and forced it open; the hinges screeching in protest. She fell to her knees by the crumpled individual in the cramped cell; her hands hovering over him as though afraid to touch him lest she make his injuries worse. For a few moments Alistair stood mouth agape, appalled at what his fellow Warden had just done. Even though the person imprisoned here was filthy, his stained garb made it quite clear what he was.

_Didn't they say a mage had been poisoning the Arl?_

Reaching into the cell, Alistair grasped Merran's arm and yanked her out. "Are you insane?" he demanded roughly. "Is this the mage that was poisoning Arl Eamon?" he added in an urgent hiss. "If so, he's a _criminal_ and a-"

"Mind your own business, Templar!" she turned on him with unexpected force, twisting out of his grip to the sound of tearing fabric. She glared at him with such ferocity, Alistair was rendered completely wordless, unsure what to make of the blazing fire in her eyes or the tears streaking pale lines down her grubby cheeks.

"This man has been tortured." Leliana's quiet statement shattered the tension between the two Grey Wardens. She had taken over Merran's place in the cell by the prisoner, a worried frown knotting her forehead.

Inspecting the curled up, dishevelled mess of a human being from the other side of the cell bars, Morrigan narrowed her eyes speculatively. "It appears the mistress of this castle has carried out her punishment already," she stated grimly.

Giving Alistair another angry shove, Merran squeezed past her gawking companions, flinging another seething look – and a warning - at him. "Stay out of my way! This has nothing to do with you!"

"Look I…" Alistair began, his mouth snapping shut. Merran_…crying…_It…did something to his insides; the shock of her accusatory stare warring with all the reasons his brain could come up with against assisting the prisoner. For the moment he decided to stand back and observe. Merran did not wait for his agreement to return to her friend's side. She knelt on the stone, heedless of the filth and dirt and blood surrounding the young man, casting her healing magic and rejuvenation spells.

Perhaps it was the crackle of magic causing the hairs at the base of Alistair's neck to stand up, or the way Merran ran her hands along her unconscious friend's body but Alistair felt his ears turn involuntarily and unexpectedly warm. He'd never seen Merran like this before, her interactions disconcertingly intimate as she continued healing her injured friend. Alistair scrubbed at the back of his neck, forcing his attention away to the greenish, cracked stone above the cell opening. On the floor, Merran's friend moaned softly. Alistair's gaze snapped back to the imprisoned mage, his hand automatically reaching towards his sword.

The man opened his eyes, trying to rise. This time, Alistair took in more detail; the mage's height, probable weight…calculating how quickly he could be affected by a Holy Smite and…he sighed. The young mage's eyes opened to an ice blue that made him appear ridiculously young and at odds with the raven black of his hair. He was tall; as tall as Alistair, but it didn't matter much. He had a build typical of many inmates of the Mages' Tower; rangy and sun-deprived; pallid skin visible through tattered and torn robes bruised, swollen…Alistair was surprised Merran was able to recognise her friend under all that damage.

Perhaps, a small voice told him at the back of his head, the fact that she was able to do so spoke volumes about the closeness of their relationship. The thought led to a rather uncalled-for twinge of jealousy, not unlike the one he'd felt when Duncan had talked about Merran's possible parentage, though in this case, Alistair was confused as to why he would feel jealous. It wasn't as if he knew this other mage or even cared much for Merran. Envy shouldn't come into it. There was also the fact that _this _person had tried to kill the Arl…If the Arlessa had been torturing him she must have been desperate for information. For an antidote perhaps, or even a cure? _Makers breath, why would anyone do that to a man like Arl Eamon? A _good_ man?_

Another soft moan emerged from the now-sitting mage. Merran put her arm about her friend's shoulders and gave him the gentlest of shakes. "Jowan," she called quietly. "Jowan can you hear me?"

"Mer…Merran…?" Jowan raised shaking hands to his head, trying to focus on the source of the voice speaking.

"Here." Stepping forward, Zevran handed his water skin to Merran, earning him a disapproving scowl from Alistair. It irked him that anyone else would take pity on this criminal. And then another thought occurred…_Is she part of this conspiracy…?_ His fingers twitched once more towards the hilt of his sword, eyes flicking contemplatively towards his fellow Grey Warden.

Steely jaws clamped around his hand. Alistair glanced downwards into coal-black eyes narrowed warningly at him. The mabari did not growl but her expression told him that she respected him as one warrior to another, but raise his sword towards her mistress and he would soon see who was the better warrior. As Alistair deliberately moved his sword hand back to his side, Jowan spluttered, choking a little on the bare sip of water he'd just taken.

"Merran…" he croaked, waving the water skin away. "_Andraste's _brassicas_;_ what are you doing here?"

"Trying to find out what's been going on here," Merran tried to tell him cheerfully, her smile dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. "Jowan…" she whispered worriedly. "Are you the mage that's been poisoning the Arl?"

Jowan exhaled a rattling breath. He closed his eyes.

"A sleeping draught," he told them, opening his eyes once more. His gaze fell on the rather brooding young man leaning against the far wall and felt moved to elaborate. "I _swear, _it wasn't…this isn't what it looks like. What…ever this looks like."

Clutching at Merran's hand on his shoulder, he added urgently. "Whatever reason you have for being here, you should leave, before it's too late. It's not safe here. Not for you. Not for anyone."

Merran shook her head stubbornly, unwilling to comply. "We saved the village last night, Jowan," she informed him. "We-"

"This isn't about the armies of walking corpses, Merran!" Jowan interrupted. "Use your mage instincts! There is more _here_ than mere undead."

"What then?" Alistair heard his voice demand, unable to remain silent any longer. "You've been here to see this whole thing start. Were _you_ the one who started it?"

Taking a step forward earned him a growl from Cullen. Just a warning. Just in case.

"Look," he told the mabari, "I only want some answers."

"The first being," Merran said in a curiously dull voice, "how you managed to escape from Kinloch Hall. You're still in your apprentice robes, Jowan. Why is that?"

Jowan passed a hand over his eyes. "I'll tell you everything Merran, but you must promise to leave here and never come back."

"No," was the immediate answer.

"Then I won't-"

"_No_."

In one swift movement Merran straightened and had turned towards Alistair. With surprising speed, she had reached out, taken a hold of his sword and drew it from its scabbard. Once in hand, she struggled with the weighty weapon a few seconds; though so unexpected had her actions been that it took that long for her companions to figure out what she was doing before they could even understand what, why or how. By the time anyone was in a position to stop her, Merran had already brought the point of Alistair's sword to rest on Jowan's shoulder. Even Leliana barely had time for a gasp of horror.

"Mer-Mer…!"

"Shutup Leliana," Merran snapped in a voice hard as ice. To Jowan, she said; "I want to hear everything. I advise you to keep it short and to the point. You can start with your _timely_ escape."

Jowan paled. The coldness in his friend's eyes was not something he'd ever seen before and it hurt to see her like this. Merran was his sister, the only true family he'd ever known. He knew she would be the last one to raise her hand to anyone and certainly not her brother-mage…oh, she'd freeze bits of him to test an ice spell or dangle him upside down for fun or turn his morning porridge into rat tails, but not _really _hurt him. She was never mean, never spiteful and always considerate of the way she used her magic in and around people. She was _incapable_ of hurting anyone.

On the other hand, Jowan also knew she had been a long time away from the Tower. What had she endured since leaving? How had being a Grey Warden changed her?

"Alright then…" Jowan began on a long breath.

"It happened after Ostagar, after the mages came back," he said, "I don't have the details. All I know is that there was a meeting. First Enchanter Irving had called it. All the senior mages were gathered and there was some kind of…altercation." Jowan paused, swallowing nervously. Merran tossed the water skin back to him and he took another drink before continuing.

"None of us had any idea anything had gone wrong," he said, "until the Templars began heading up there in _numbers._ The Knight Commander hadn't been there at the time though. I understand it was…" Jowan looked up at Merran with an intent look that made Alistair even more uneasy. "Cullen was up there Merran, along with Aeryc and Damlyn and Maker knows how many others.

"Some of the mages…" he continued. "Apparently there had been some kind of _signal_. A code. They tried to take control of Kinloch Hold and the Templars tried to stop them…" At this time, Jowan's head sunk to his chest. He passed a shaking hand across a bloodied cheek. "Maker help them, there were _abominations_. It just got…it just got out of hand. It was chaos. They went through the library…Merran you know what that's like at any time of the day…There were these _things_, crawling out of the floor, trying to get into your head. My only thought was to get the _Fade_ out of there, so I…I found Lily and in the confusion we just…ran..."

"So where is Lily?" Merran demanded. "Why didn't the Templars chase you?"

"They were too busy," Jowan stated simply. "The doors were unguarded while the Knight Commander tried to bring some order back. It was like I said: chaos." He sighed. "And as for being pursued, well the Templars didn't…they didn't show up until after Lily and I decided to part ways." Jowan's mouth twisted bitterly on these last words.

"Parted ways?" Merran frowned.

Jowan nodded. "Lily she…she began to have second thoughts about us. She didn't want to be on the run, always looking over her shoulder. It wasn't a life she wanted to live. Neither of us had any money, nowhere to go and with the Blight…It didn't matter. Soon after Lily left, the Templars found me. I think she…" He shook his head, refusing to believe that the women he once loved might have been the one who had reported him to the authorities.

"What happened then?" Merran asked, dropping back down to his side, the flat of Alistair's sword sliding across his shoulder to clang noisily to the stone.

"Loghain's soldiers found the Templars," Jowan told her in a small voice. "They weren't very…kind."

"What?" Alistair exclaimed. "Loghain's men interferring with Chantry business? That's _illegal._"

"Illegal or not," Jowan told him grimly. "It was done." He turned back to Merran. "They told me that they would 'fix' things with the Circle if I did what they told me to do. The..." He frowned. "His name was Howe, I think. He told me of a certain nobleman whose son had begun to show…signs."

"Signs?" Leliana asked.

"Magic," Jowan grimaced. "The boy in question was an only child. The mother was desperate to hide her son's abilities from the father."

"The Arl," Merran stated, making a face. Jowan nodded.

"I was supposed to pose as the boy's tutor and poison the Arl," Jowan continued to explain. "But I didn't tear the Veil!" he denied hastily, as the large blond haired man in the Templar armour took a threatening step forward. Jowan needn't have worried; the well-armoured youth held back once by the mabari's warning growl.

"It was just a powerful sleeping draught," Jowan repeated in a pleading tone of voice. "I'm not that stupid Merran," he added. "I might not know the Arl personally, but I do know of him. And I know the penalty for attempted assassination of a noble. But what else could I have done? Go against General Loghain's orders? I wasn't going to try to kill the Arl, so I thought I could make it seem like he was being poisoned. Once the deed was done, I could try to escape but-"

"How much did you manage to teach the boy?" Merran interrupted.

"Not much," Jowan shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at the wounds on his back. "The boy had just come into his power."

"I can't believe it," Alistair breathed in disbelief. "Connor…a _mage_?"

"He's not the only one with magic here," Jowan said quietly, while Merran and Morrigan exchanged a significant look. Then the two of them said together; "_Isolde_".

"What!" Alistair practically shouted. "I don't like the woman, but that doesn't mean that she's a…well that she's a wi-"

"It was the boy; Connor," Jowan added softly before Alistair could finish his sentence. "He was the one that summoned the demon initially, I think. But…but Connor wasn't powerful enough for it." He turned sad eyes toward Merran. "There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Merran rose, her mouth set in a determined and angry line. She raised the sword, swinging it around, almost taking Jowan's ear with it. "Not as _sorry_ as the demon's going to be when _I've_ finished with it," she growled threateningly.

"Merran…" Jowan tried getting to his feet, but found his limbs unresponsive. "This is a demon," he reminded her, taking her hand. "A _demon._"

"I fear nothing from demons," Merran's chin tilted defiantly. "They're afraid of _me_."

Jowan chewed on his bottom lip, pondering his childhood friend's statement. _So the rumours are true, _he thought_._ When he'd heard the Templars talking about how Merran's Harrowing had gone, he'd meant – had wanted - to ask her about it himself. Of course, he'd never had the opportunity to do so. The Grey Warden had taken Merran away before he'd had a chance. _Fastest Harrowing ever, _Cullen had said. At first Jowan had thought it had just been _Cullen, _the Templar's infatuation with Merran causing him to exaggerate.

Now, Jowan wasn't quite sure. Tugging at Merran's robes urgently, he warned her all the same; "Merran…Demons might be afraid of you in the _Fade_, but this one has human form; a form with access to powerful magic. You know a creature like that isn't constrained by the limitations of the Fade realm. It can do anything it liked. Killing; taking over people's minds and bodies, not just raising the dead to life."

Despite the warning, Merran shrugged again, completely unperturbed. Jerking her head towards Alistair, she told him, "That's where Templar boy's going to come in handy."

Swivelling about to face Alistair, she was confronted by his horrified expression. "I'm _not _a Templar!" he protested vehemently. "I didn't take my vows, remember? There is no way that I'm going to…Did I ever tell you about the one and only time I had to _deal _with an abomination? That was not fun! It was…It was one of the reasons I never _ever_ wanted to take my final vows!"

"Fine," Merran sniffed in disgust. "If you won't, then I'll do it." Turning back to Jowan, it was to find her mage friend's expression mirroring her fellow Grey Warden's. Jowan shook his head, unable to believe the direction the conversation had taken. Jowan knew Merran could dig her heels in if she felt the strongly enough to do so. She was stubborn, though…not unreasonably so. Could he convince her otherwise? What he thought she was proposing was insane.

_And I am _not_ going to let her leave me behind._

"Well in that case…" Jowan attempted to rise again. "I'm coming with you." _Andraste's burning bonce; if she's really going to do what I think she's going to do, she's not going to do it without me!_ Finally making it upright, Jowan leant against the cell bars, shaking with muscle fatigue. He'd been testing his levels of mana when a stream of choice curses interrupted his own train of thought.

"_Mages…_" the blond Templar grumbled. "You're all one Archdemon short of a Blight!"

-oo-

Merran had positioned herself firmly at the front of the group, Leliana stubbornly refusing to leave her side despite the mage's dark look at her. The group encountered more of the living dead as they made their way through the lower levels of the castle. It was a horrible, stinking, messy way to progress, but the determination to _get this done _- one hand clenched by her side and the pinwheel grasped firmly in other - that kept Merran from the urge to find a dark corner to curl up into and weep like a frightened child.

_Anger…_Anger was good, she told herself, grinding her back teeth. Anger kept her feet moving one step at a time and the fear at a distance...Anger at Leliana who wanted to keep her _safe_, treating her like a stupid, incapable child_;_ anger at Alistair who labelled her best friend a criminal and hated mages because he'd just been told to (and not, actually thought about the fact that they might be _people, _or anything)…_Anger_ at Isolde for the deaths of all those people…_if _there was anything of Isolde left. And lastly (and perhaps most of all), Merran kept her anger simmering over Jowan; for running from the Tower with little else but a rose-coloured dream and a pompous, backstabbing cow of an initiate.

He was also keeping something from her. Something he knew she wouldn't like. Merran didn't have to make too many guesses what that something might be.

_Of course_, that small chirping voice in the back of her head said reasonably (the one who liked to knit kittens and bake sugar mice) that she need not be angry at all. Not really. Leliana was simply concerned as a good friend might be. Jowan had just wanted to _escape;_ to have some kind of chance at a normal, happy life. She had escaped from the Tower by being enlisted by the Grey Wardens after all. As for Alistair…unfortunately for _him_, even the pink-cardigan-wearing, puppy-rescuing voice in Merran's head could not find a reasonable explanation for his attitude or his rudeness. It could not get past the horrible way he treated mages and Merran was sick to death of hearing how evil and mean she was. _Well, I'll show him…_she seethed. _I'll show him how evil and mean_ _I really can __be!_

Keeping her anger with Alistair on the boil was so much easier than maintaining the rage at the others, so she forced herself only to think of Alistair (even though she would rather not think of him at _all). _Alistair with his stupid hair and those stupidly pretty amber eyes…That stupid, lopsided, mocking grin and his annoyingly stupid, gawky _oh but I didn't take my final vows, but I'll use my Templar abilities on you anyway_ attitude.

She wished it had been some other Grey Warden who had survived Ostagar with her, hastily banishing the gut-twisting memory of fear and apprehension she had felt when she thought he was dying in the Tower of Ishal. No, it should have been Gareth or Tolliver or that handsome elven lad from Denerim who'd had amber eyes too…No, wait, they had been blue…or where they brown? Green. They had definitely been green…_Amber…what kind of a wishy-washy colour was that anyway_? It was so like Alistair to have eyes like that; eyes that couldn't decide whether they wanted to be properly brown or not. Half-_hearted_, that was what he was. Just like the rest of him. Indecisive, yellow-kneed_, _half-ars…_Well, I'm just not going to say that particular word._ It was something _he _would say, the foul-mouthed, holy smiting, mana-cleansing…_stupidhead not-_Templar!

When they emerged from the cellars, into the misty grounds of the castle's courtyard, they were attacked again; this time by a powerful Revenant and skeletal archers. Merran was by now so cross at Alistair that before the others could engage the enemy in battle, she'd turned them into balloon-shaped abominations that floated harmlessly across the courtyard…then _popped _messily near them. Merran was heedless of the mess and chorus of disgusted exclamations at her back. Completely consumed by the red-haze of rage, she continued onwards towards the release for the portcullis, blasting a hole in the stonework before punching the lever to raise the gates.

As promised, Ser Perth and his men stormed through, sweeping the Grey Wardens up with them to the castle's great entrance doors. Still fuming over Alistair and having little else to kill for precious seconds, Merran completely lost her head and 'accidentally' turned his Templar armour plate into Templar armour _plaid._

Orange and green plaid.

And he didn't even notice.

They entered the main hall – the main doors rendered into toothpicks – surprising the small collection of people inside. Merran paused again, her fury checked at the sight of Bann Teagan turning cartwheels and somersaults to the giggling amusement of a little boy at the end of the room.

"Maaamalade!" Teagan greeted them, prancing comically while pulling faces at them. Surreptitiously, Merran glanced over at Leliana for her reaction. By the look on the red head's face, it appeared Leliana was rethinking her little episode of _Orlesian Tiddlywinks _with the handsome Bann…Merran opened her mouth for some clever quip about strawberry jam, when her eye fell upon Lady Isolde; cowed and trembling at her son's side.

_Damn and blast!_ It was almost as if the demon had sensed an oncoming confrontation and had decided to possess the cuter, more difficult to handle possessee for the occasion.

Not that Merran had an inclination to dispose of the Arlessa on sight. She barely knew the woman. For all she knew she and Arlessa Isolde had plenty in common…such as…Well, maybe not much in common either. Regardless, Merran knew it was the more powerful magic user that the demon wanted and seeing the miserable, haggard face of Arlessa Isolde, Merran felt incredibly sorry for the woman. The Arlessa had been fighting the demon, but without the proper training, she was losing the battle. Perhaps, it was already lost.

_How long has this been going on? _

As Leliana argued with demon-Connor, demanding it release Bann Teagan, the Arlessa's eyes met hers, pleading.

_End it…please._

Merran took a deep breath, summoning every annoying, irritating, aggravating action and incident she'd encountered with Alistair, using every slight, insult and scolding to refuel her anger. Her heart pounding in her ears and the pinwheel shaking in her hand she announced loudly, "Why don't we just kill everyone in the castle; and you _too_ while we're at it, you _silly_ demon creature!"

There was a groan behind her, which Merran tried very hard to ignore. "Very scary, Merran..." Jowan sighed at her.

Merran rounded on him, sparks flying from the vanes of her pinwheel.

"Silence!" she commanded, with only the barest wobble to her voice. "I will not have my judgement questioned!" She turned back to the demon-child. "It was not I who killed a whole village full of people and turned them into walking carrion! Not I who turned the Bann into a travelling circus! I say we kill the boy and the annoying woman now! I've got more important things to do!"

Advancing on Connor, Merran found herself abruptly jerked backwards when gauntleted, plaid hands grabbed her arm to stop her. "_Please_ tell me you're not seriously considering killing a child…" Alistair hissed urgently "After all you've said…!"

Alistair found his gauntlets suddenly on fire…worse, he realised what _colour _they were and in horror, how he could have missed that particular detail. Taking advantage of Alistair's abrupt distraction, Merran tore free, continuing her journey to the other end of the room in a few rapid steps. Halting a short distance from the demon-child Merran folded her arms, her foot tapping an annoyed staccato on the exposed stone floor.

"Well, demon?" Merran demanded.

The Connor-demon cackled. "I think you are a very poor actress," it said, sending a shockwave through the room with a sweep of an arm. Taken by surprise, Merran found herself knocked to the floor by the wave of magical energy before she could think to erect a barrier. Not surprisingly, when the dust had cleared, demon-Connor had fled from the room, but not before setting Bann Teagan and the Arl's personal guard onto them. Merran scrambled out of the way, casting rapid fire paralysis glyphs around the Redcliffe knights, careful to exclude Ser Perth and his men. Then it was a simple case of rendering the demon's puppets unconscious, the Bann included.

When the battle was over, Morrigan's feet appeared in front of Merran. The mage looked upwards, cheeks turning slightly more pink than usual.

"Well all _right_," Merran admitted with a grimace. "So I'm not good at bluffing."

Morrigan's eyebrow cocked upwards. "An understatement," the witch drawled.

"You weren't going to kill everyone?" Alistair asked, looking about him and wondering whether he had missed a vital piece of information somewhere.

Leliana rounded on him angrily: "Mer-Mer would never do such a thing!" she told him, lowering herself to the ground to arrange the unconscious Bann's head comfortably in her lap.

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "Oh no…well, why would she?" he said resentfully. "All she needed really was to _blind everyone by turning my armour this hideous colour!_"

"Truly, the work of a genius," Zevran commented, though he made a show of shielding his eyes as he walked past Alistair to join Merran at the front of the hall.

In Leliana's lap the Bann stirred and slowly sat up. He surveyed the room, smiling at Leliana slowly then jumped, startled as Isolde appeared at his side, elbowing Leliana roughly out of the way.

"Oh, my Bann Teagan! Thank the Maker you are all right. I could not have forgiven myself if something had happened to you."

Rising gracefully and patting at the braids in her hair, Leliana sniffed in offended tones. "And no one would have forgiven you…you…_married _woman!" she told the Arlessa.

Teagan however, did not seem to notice the exchange of glares between red-head and brunette; his eyes becoming arrested by Alistair's garish armour. "Good gracious Aberyswyth, did you fall into a dyeing vat?" he exclaimed.

"Ha, ha very funny," Alistair's mouth curled downward unhappily. "Your cruel taunts shall be remembered to my dying days…or…at least until dinner." He frowned at Merran. "I hope we're having cheese. You _promised _me there would be cheese."

Merran leapt to her feet, raising her pinwheel and pointing it threateningly at Alistair, "Oh really? Do you know what would go really _well_ with your armour?" she hissed, annoyed. "How about some _pink_ hair? Or purple eyebrows! How about I turn your sword into a ferret!" she ended up in a screech.

"Much as I would enjoy the spectacle of Alistair being humiliated," Morrigan interrupted smoothly, "There is still the matter of the demon." Her head cocked to the side, listening to some inner voice…"It appears to have returned to the Fade."

"Then this could be our chance to defeat it there," Jowan said, leaning heavily on Cullen. "Before it has a chance to do any more damage."

"The demon will still be able to control its victims from the Fade," Morrigan reminded him.

"Certainly," Jowan agreed, "but will only have access to its own power there."

"Which is quite enough to wreak-"

"Enough!" Merran shouted, stamping her foot. "Andraste's burning buns, the two of you sound like a married couple, _honestly_." She turned to Jowan. "It's a nice idea, confronting the demon in the Fade, but you're forgetting that we have no way of getting there." She remembered the wide dish of pure liquid lyrium held in the Harrowing Chamber for such a purpose. "We don't enough lyrium for a start."

"Except that we don't…_need_ lyrium, to enter the Fade," Jowan said softly, refusing to meet Merran's eyes.

"If…" Wringing her hands, Isolde entered the conversation. Her interruption made Morrigan give her a keen, penetrating look, assessing her. "If there is a way, please tell me."

Merran's gaze had not left Jowan, even if he would not look at her. "We could…" _return to the Mage Tower _she had been about to say, but what if the Knight Commander had not been able to bring the Tower back to order? What if there were no mages left? Or if the blood mages had locked away all the lyrium? Even if there were mages and no funny business at the Tower, it would still take _time _to go there; precious time they could not afford to take. The chances of the Arling coming under attack yet again by the demon's forces of undead were far too high. Too risky…the very idea of walking dead children wrapping cold tendrils around her Merran's heart and squeezing painfully...She stared even harder at Jowan, biting her lip anxiously. No. Absolutely not. It was lyrium or nothing!

Lady Isolde meanwhile had given up on fighting Leliana for possession of Bann Teagan and turned instead to Jowan, tugging on a torn sleeve. Clearly, she had forgotten how she had treated the young mage, or else she simply had been under the influence of the demon too much to remember how she had abused and tortured him. She seemed - for the moment, Merran felt - in full control of her faculties.

"If you have a way to save my child you _must_ tell me!" Isolde's voice became insistent.

Eyes still locked on her old Tower friend, Merran set her jaw. "Except that he's talking about blood magic," she stated dully.

"Blood magic!" Alistair exclaimed, breaking the tension in the room. "Two wrongs don't make a right!" He turned to Merran, looming in disapproval. "You aren't seriously contemplating blood magic. That is _not_ a solution, not now, not _ever!_"

Merran turned away. She wanted to deny the claim, wanted desperately to agree with Alistair, except that it was _Alistair…_and the last person in Thedas she would ever agree with was this bristling know-it-all who knew nothing about mages or magic and only cared about his own Chantrier-than-thou stance. Just because a person trained for a few years in sword and shield and knew the Chant of Light by heart did not make him (or her) an expert in…_everything._

In the end, it was Isolde that filled the empty space devoid of decisions and answers. "You speak of using life to supply enough power for this ritual," she stated. "In this way a mage would be able to enter the Fade, yes?"

When all eyes in the room, including Bann Teagan turned to her, the Arlessa blushed. "I…know a little of these things," she explained quietly. "In Orlais," she added, the red in her cheeks darkening. "Magic runs in my family, you see" she finally admitted, though reluctantly. "I had hoped…Because I did not show any…signs as a girl that I myself…In my family it was not always used for good things. I prayed to the Maker that the curse would end some day, but…" She took a deep breath and faced Jowan. "If this ritual of yours will save my son, use _my _life."

"Isolde!" Teagan exclaimed. "You cannot be serious! What of Eamon? What will he do when he finds out-"

"When he finds out that his _wife _has been deceiving him all these years?" Morrigan interrupted with a curl of her lip. "While I do not condone the imprisonment of mages, the fact of the matter is a _lack_ of adequate discipline in this instance has been at the root of your woes. Nor will this be the first such time demonic possession will be the cause of such trouble. And seeing neither of you have strength of will enough to resist temptation, training appears to be the _least_ of your problems."

Merran flinched at Morrigan's words; Alistair was quite sure he saw her do so, though precisely _why_…_Wait, what did Morrigan mean 'neither of you'? _Did she really mean Isolde? _Nug droppings…! Merran, Morrigan and Jowan were really sure about this, weren't they? _And yet…his Templar training had not picked up anything from the Arlessa_. _Even when they had mentioned it earlier, he had not been willing to believe it. What if they were wrong, after all? How could Isolde have concealed something like this from Eamon for so long? Or was it one of the reasons why she wanted him out of his household? Not just for the rumours about him being Eamon's bastard, but because she didn't want any witnesses to her magic?

While he pondered this, Merran in the meantime gazed up through her lashes at the Arlessa. Though the older woman remained with her head lowered demurely, the softness of Isolde's features when she had made her plea for her son had dissipated, leaving a calculating arrangement of blandness behind. It appeared the demon had decided to intrude on this conversation before things got out of hand.

"You're really sure you're willing to offer your life?" Merran asked.

"What?" Isolde and Alistair answered at the same time. Alistair adding, "Merran, I'm not going to tell you again, but…"

Merran turned her back resolutely on him, facing the Arlessa square-on. "You said you were willing to give your life in order to save your son," Merran repeated, jabbing her elbow backwards into Alistair's chest plate, her rock-armour imbued appendage clanging warningly on the metal.

"With blood magic, you mean?" the Arlessa blinked innocently, the toss of her head only implied. "Of course for my son, I would do anything…"

"You brought Connor into this world," Merran said softly, though her voice was flat and emotionless. "It would be your right to decide…"

"Of course it is," Isolde looked alarmed at the accusation that the situation would be otherwise. "I am sure an appropriate animal may be found for the sacrifice, yes?"

"It must be a human life, my lady…" Jowan reminded them all dully, and in deference to Merran's steadily increasing distress at the options they were being left with.

"Absolutely not!" Alistair decided at this point to intervene. As far as he was concerned, the Tower of Magi was not that far. Also, there were _Templars _at the Redcliffe Chantry _and _lyrium. "Whatever the circumstances, we cannot sacrifice the Arlessa's life. I _owe _Eamon that."

"For abandoning you when his responsibility was to care for you?" Leliana spoke up quietly. She placed her hand on Merran's shoulder, feeling the young mage tremble beneath her fingertips. "Mer-Mer, is there truly no other way? Surely there must be another way…The Redcliffe Chantry!" she said suddenly, speaking aloud Alistair's own thoughts. "The Revered Mother would surely have stocks of lyrium for her Templars…"

"Not in the amount that we would need, sadly," Jowan passed a hand through his blood-matted hair. "I…had already considered that. Unless it is pure lyrium…I'm afraid the Templars don't get that kind of quality…"

Merran squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Alistair knew _nothing _of what it was like to be a mage and she was annoyed and angry for him for sticking his oar in where it was not wanted but…_This is...different. Why do I feel like I'd be taking the Arlessa's life to spite him? _She thought of Duncan and the Grey Wardens; how much they all meant to Alistair _as much as herself._ She thought too of the dragon in her dreams, so desperate for release. Did Isolde and Connor feel that way too? Enslaved as they were with little control over their lives as long as the demon existed?_ Was_ there another way? _Is there another way? _

_Demons are afraid of me…_

Taking a breath, Merran turned to Alistair. "Do you have any other ideas?" she asked.

"What?" Alistair startled at being _asked. _"I'm no expert!" he admitted, not willing to be the one who made the decision, ultimately. It wasn't his _choice._

Merran made a face at him, as though the entire episode was _his _fault. "Well then." She turned back to Jowan. "Then I propose this: you perform the ritual-"

"Merran," Alistair extended his hand, scowling. "I said _no_-"

"I will be the sacrifice," she spoke over Alistair's protestations. "Morrigan will enter the Fade and confront and defeat the demon."

She threw a look of scorn over her shoulder at Alistair, eyes daring him to contradict her. "Problem solved yes? Connor is saved, the Arlessa lives and you get to look shiny to the Arl, am I right?"

-oo-


	15. Ashes

Thanks for all the reviews! It's really, really appreciated!

-oo-

**Chapter 15 – Ashes**

Alistair stared at Merran, completely lost for words. The odd, random word would pop into his head then just as inconveniently pop right out. Merran's announcement had rendered him speechless and that was a rare thing. He always prided himself on being able to find at least _one _appropriate word for every situation. It was a talent, the only thing he had and she'd robbed him of even that. As he continued to fight for coherent thought, Alistair became aware of other noises; a deep growl, quiet sobbing; though he was finding it difficult disconnecting his gaze from the mage to locate their source. And then she had the temerity to smile – _smile _– at him!

"This is my decision," she informed them calmly. "This will be good for ev-"

Morrigan was the first to act. In one swift movement the witch had seized Merran by the arm and yanked her into the adjoining study across the hall. Kicking the door shut with her boot heel, the taller woman flung Merran towards the desk, sending piles of paperwork cascading to the floor. "You fool…" the witch hissed.

The edge of the desk digging painfully into her lower back, Merran ducked her head. She had expected Morrigan to disagree with her decision, but not as vehemently as this. Meanwhile Morrigan paced before her like an elegant, caged beast.

"This farce has gone far enough," the witch growled. "Have you forgotten what we discussed?" she demanded angrily. "The woman is a _demon_, possessed beyond redemption_…_and you would throw your life away for her?"

Merran raised her hands in what she hoped was a placating enough manner. "Morrigan..." she began, the seething witch cutting her off before she had time to form a proper sentence.

"The life of a Grey Warden is far more valuable than a possessed noblewoman…" Morrigan reminded her icily, "or has your commonsense abandoned you entirely, along with its sickly Arl?"

"Well, no but…"

Morrigan stopped pacing, her spine straight and her shoulders square. "Is this what you truly wish?" she asked. "I know not what game you play Warden, but _I_ will not allow myself to be part of this idiocy." Turning her head, the witch pinned Merran with a particularly sharp glare. "Blood magic holds no practical use to me," she stated simply, the lift of her chin an even more firm indication of her opinion on the matter. "It comes to this: your friend will simply have to find someone else to enter the Fade. Any involvement of mine has now come to an end."

Having said her piece Morrigan turned, pulled the door open, stepped into the hall and was gone.

It took a couple more seconds before Merran could find her breath – and her voice – again. Scrubbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand, she was annoyed to find her skin wet with tears. At a sound in the doorway, Merran looked up. Jowan stood there, his hand on the door jamb, though his attention was focused down the hallway; in the direction Morrigan had gone.

"Where did she go?" he asked, worried. "She will be back, right? We're about to start the ritual."

When he glanced over at Merran, realisation dawned. "She's not…coming back, is she?"

Merran responded with a grimace.

"Oh," he stated. "Well then." Neither Jowan's nervous huff of laughter nor his light-hearted tone was particularly sympathetic to the current situation; "In that case, maybe we should volunteer the Templar…"

Unsurprisingly Merran's expression darkened and Jowan scrambled to find a level of seriousness in answer to his old friend's scowl. "Look" he began again, "I'm sorry…I really am; but you _know_ the alternative."

'_Sorry'…? _Merran closed her eyes, fighting for calm. She hated arguing with Morrigan because she knew the witch was right. As for Jowan's apology…Re-opening her eyes, she uncurled the fists at her side and approached the doorway. She paused, unable to extinguish her own flare of anger in her eyes. Jowan hadn't told her how he had escaped the Tower. Not really. But it had become quite obvious _what _and _how _the moment he had suggested the Ritual. She had warned him. Over and over. Did she not warn him? Of course she had! And _still…!_

"_Sorry_?" Merran flung at him. "You could never be sorry enough, Jowan. Not in this lifetime. Not _ever._" Thanks to her ill-timed gamble and Jowan's insistence on dabbling in a field of magic he _shouldn't_, they'd just lost the only other person who could reliably deal with an embedded possession…and a vital key to her plan.

-oo-

When the two of them re-entered the room – without Morrigan - Alistair _pounced. _He looked both relieved and concerned that it was just Merran and the Blood Mage.

"Where is…?" he began, to be cut off abruptly by the little mage.

"Morrigan's gone."

Alistair frowned. "What do you mean, she's go-"

"The options stand thus…" Ignoring Alistair's interrogating gaze, Merran faced the rest of the room coolly. Her most frigid stare however, lingered on Alistair as a warning against questioning her further. She didn't need him playing Chantrier-than-thou. Not now.

"As we have only two mages left to perform the Ritual, either someone else must offer themself as the…_sacrifice_," she continued, struggling with the last word. "_Or_ we simply allow the demon to rule Redcliffe."

The room erupted in noise. Suggestions and protestations flew back and forth, each speaker raising their voice more loudly in an attempt to be heard over the din. Bann Teagan argued that the Grey Wardens should automatically be exempt owing to the duty they had to defeat the Blight. Leliana disputed the notion that it was Teagan's life that was disposable, given that he might need to take up the reins of leadership. Sandwiched between the Grey Wardens, Jowan reminded anyone within listening distance that _he_ certainly could not as he was performing the ritual, while Zevran suggested the Blood Mage might not be as indispensable as he believed.

Merran stood silent amongst the noise, her attention wholly on the Arlessa…the only other person in the room who was not speaking. Sensing herself being scrutinised, the Arlessa raised her head; hooded gaze defiant. When there was a break in conversation, Isolde stepped forward.

"What of the redhead?" she proposed. "What value has her life? Or the giant for that matter?" Curling her lip at Zevran, she added, "Or the elf?"

"Isolde!" Teagan exclaimed, appalled at his sister-in-law's behaviour. "Sacrifice the Grey Wardens' companions? You cannot be serious!"

"Then order one of the soldiers!" the Arlessa practically shouted. "Is it not their duty to give their lives for my husband and this Arling? What about a servant?"

Bann Teagan's expression turned even more grim. "Do you hold the lives of those who are loyal to us so cheaply, Isolde?" he asked quietly. The Arlessa's response was a toss of her head, even as the Bann continued. "Have not these people suffered enough at the hands of the demon?"

At the mention of 'demon', Isolde leapt towards Teagan, clutching in vain at the Bann's tunic. "They have a duty!" she screeched. "To this Arling! To me! You have no id…"

Merran knew the moment Isolde had control of herself once more. She could feel the disconcerting ripple in the mana field around them as human fought desperately with demon. Breathing heavily, she inclined her head towards Merran, her skin ashen with effort and her eyes tired beyond mere fatigue. "No more, Mage…" she spoke with difficulty. "Do this now…while I still can …Save my son. Use my life. Let me atone for my…" Isolde clawed at her neck, the demon choking her from the inside out. "Teagan…tell Eamon that I…"

Merran could take it no more. She thumped Jowan to begin the Ritual, the other mage's mouth moving as he began casting the spell to siphon the Arlessa's life force into a single, concentrated burst of energy. Merran felt the surge of mana; the Veil ripping…and the familiar sensation of falling, spinning end over end dizzyingly into the Fade.

-oo-

She didn't land. Travelling from the mortal world to the Fade might feel like falling, but once there, it was as though she'd always been there, the echoes of a scream fading in her ears. Hers? Or Isolde's? Shaking her head, Merran looked about, trying to gain what bearings she could. Orange mist shrouded the Raw Fade landscape, tendrils of fog curling possessively about her ankles. Merran stamped her foot, cursing Jowan, the Arlessa…Alistair, Teagan and everyone else she could think of, fists punching the air uselessly.

She couldn't hit anyone here. Not physically; and not the people she'd _really _like to thump black and blue, but yelling? It…felt better. Slightly. She'd been about to yell again when a voice - at first distant – swirled around her in a cloud of sound…

"Connor?" _Is that the Arl, _Merran wondered? "Connor! Where are you!" Through the fog vague shapes of an elderly man wandered, his voice hollow and frightened. "Why do I keep getting lost in this damnable fog…?" he complained querulously. "Connor? _Connor_…Why can't you hear me? Where are you?"

Merran knew the Fade. If the Arl of Redcliffe's consciousness was here, then the demon was holding it here for a _reason. _Worse, his presence intermingled with the echoes of Arlessa Isolde's life force; hammering Merran's mind with memories not her own…Isolde's childhood; a sister and the stern, implacable visage of a father…the first meeting with young Eamon Guerrin…marriage…the birth of Connor and…Merran clutched at her head, her brain seemingly pounding the inside of her skull for escape from the steady and confusing bombardment of images…

"_STOP_!"

"You are in _my_ domain…Let us have no pretence here…"

Swaying on her feet, Merran glared at the demon.

"Come now," the demon smiled mockingly. "Are we not to exchange pleasantries? Will you vanquish me with little other courtesy than a wordless look? No conversation?"

Shaking with anger Merran squinted at the demon; a creature that had been so long in contact with the Arlessa that it had appeared to have lost its natural Fade instincts. Merran was used to demons running at first sight of her. For one to take its stand…_Oh, this is going to be such fun._

The demon snorted in contempt when it continued to receive no answer. "You have no power here, mage. I have the woman…and your precious _Arl. _You…have already lost."

So busy chatting had the demon been that it did not see Merran's Rock Fist until it slammed into the side of its head, making a satisfyingly though sickening, fleshy crunch. It roared in pain and surprise, flames erupting and taking form at its feet while demonic ichor poured from the wound Merran had inflicted.

"This could have gone your way," the demon growled hoarsely as its flaming servants surged towards Merran. "You could have given me the child. Or the woman. Instead you choose-" The tsunami of ice that abruptly cut off the rest of the demon's sentence appeared to fill the entire Fade landscape completely. The demon's flaming minions disintegrated easily, consumed by walls of ice that reared and then crashed upon the demon once more in the soaring shape of glittering dragon wings.

And in the wake of the ice storm…was the sound of a raspberry, being blown rather rudely by a small, raggedy, but nonetheless, irate mage.

"And allow me to remind _you…_" Merran's voice emerged from the head of a dragon outlined in angry shards of flaming ice. "Why demons are afraid of _me_…"

-oo-

In the main hall of Redcliffe castle, the others kept their silent vigil by Merran's side. Except for the distant ticking of a hall clock and Cullen's anxious panting, there was little other sound in the room. Merran lay as unmoving as the lifeless Arlessa beside her, a frown creasing the skin between her eyes. Out of respect to his brother's wife, Bann Teagan had arranged Isolde's limbs neatly, covering both women with a blanket each. Jowan had refused to allow the Arlessa's body to be removed from the hall – not yet – not while Merran's spirit remained in the Fade.

As the minutes then hours passed, the nervous energy in the room became more palpable. Jowan shifted restlessly; Leliana made worried, mewling noises, startling if anyone else in the room moved suddenly. Even Sten appeared to look more grave than usual.

The sun made its slow descent below the horizon. Silent servants bearing tapers lit lamps and brought food for the living and still Merran did not twitch a single eyelid. If not for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, one would think she too had joined the Arlessa in the afterlife. In the distance across Lake Calenhad, the Chantry bells tolled midnight. The day had come and gone.

Cullen whined plaintively. After snuffling at Merran's face, she settled herself beside her mistress; head resting lightly on the mage's shoulder. After an approving nod Sten continued his silent contemplative guard at the hall's entry, invisible despite his immense size. Zevran produced a well-worn deck of cards. Settling cross-legged on the raised area by the fireplace, he began to play a game known only to himself. Leliana yawned delicately behind a hand, blue eyes blinking furiously against the lure of sleepiness.

By a narrow table Bann Teagan watched them all, his gaze inevitably returning to the form of his brother's wife and the Mage Warden. How could he explain this to his brother when he awoke…_if _he awoke…? Seeking a distraction, Teagan's tired eyes finally found Alistair; another immoveable object in the room. The young man stood wary and silent, most uncharacteristic of the boy he'd known years ago. As a lad Alistair had had difficulty remaining in one place, never mind anything else, chattering like a magpie; always undauntingly cheerful. Despite Isolde's cold treatment of the lad, he'd never held a grudge, incapable of spite or meanness of any sort.

The individual in the plate armour and mail – painfully colourful in all its plaid glory – was a grim, unfamiliar entity…with hand clasped firmly around the hilt of his sword and his eyes never leaving the unconscious mage…It was difficult, accepting this grave young man as the bright-eyed whirlwind Eamon had abandoned a decade ago.

A sigh escaped from the unconscious mage. An arm twitched; then the unmistakeable metallic scrape of a sword being slowly drawn, sounding harsh in the early morning lamplight. Teagan moved quickly; to place his hand on the Grey Warden's arm. The young man startled, looking at him blearily though far more alert than anyone else in the room. Exhaling slowly, Alistair nodded once, allowing his hand to fall by his side.

The mage twitched again. Her eyes opened on a sharp intake of breath and she rose slowly, the colour draining from her already pale face when her eyes alighted on Isolde's body beside her. Jowan hesitated a moment too long; Leliana rushed forward to help her to her feet but Merran waved her away, preferring the mabari to prop herself upright. She bowed at Teagan, brown eyes red-rimmed and shadowed in sadness.

"It is done," she informed him in a soft voice. "The demon is gone."

Teagan passed a hand over his face, relief and tiredness suddenly overwhelming. "Thank the Maker…" he breathed. Adding a grateful smile, he took the mage's hand briefly. "And thank the Maker for you."

"It's…" Merran's cheeks coloured, though her expression indicated she might burst once more into a bout of tears. Reclaiming her hand, she began backing out of the room. "You should check on Connor," she advised, waiting for Teagan's nod before continuing her retreat. "I'm going to go…need fresh air."

She shot one, last look of warning at Jowan. "_Alone_."

-oo-

It was difficult; making one foot move ahead of the other. It took every last ounce of concentration and effort Merran had. By the time she had reached the main castle doors, her legs were a little more cooperative, but she'd miscalculated the energy required to keep herself moving. Oblivious to the guardsmen holding the doors open for her she shuffled outside, shivering in the breeze as she contemplated the stone steps with a sigh. _Would it be easier if I just let myself fall? _How much would it hurt?

Regaining control of at least one of her arms she placed it on top of the stone rail, squeezing her eyes closed. She'd begun to move her right foot forward when she felt something large and furry slide in close beside her. Cullen bestowed a look up at her that was both scolding and reassuring. _Silly human…I won't let you fall…_

The mabari was true to her unspoken word. Every time one of Merran's legs failed her, Cullen was there to support her weight. Together they started across the muddy forecourt; Cullen pausing to allow her mage to catch her breath. The two of them were in sight – finally – of the portcullis when angry, booted steps pounded down the stone stairs behind them.

"_Merran_!" Alistair's voice sounded even more angry than his feet. She found heavy gauntlets seizing her shoulders and forcing her to turn. The rage in his face struck her tired senses like a bullwhip.

"Talk to you!" he barked in an angry staccato. "About that! What just! You! Happened!"

Merran wilted. By sheer will, she forced her mouth to work. "Does it have to be now?"

"Yes!" Alistair shot at her, indignant at the seemingly offhand tone of her voice. He jabbed an offended finger towards the castle. "_You_…!" he seethed. "How could you…? What about the Arl? Andraste's blood, I can't believe…! Do you have _any_ idea…? Any idea at all and _blood magic_! Of all the…How could you? How dare you let Isolde sacrifice herself like that? There had to be another way, and you didn't even consider…! We could have gone to Kinloch Hall! Sought help from the mages! Instead you…you…You_ disgust me_…!"

His hand tightened painfully on her shoulder. Merran gasped in pain but Alistair did not see or hear. "You've done some creepy things since I've known you," he continued hoarsely, his voice dripping with revulsion and loathing, "but this…_This_ is just the w-"

His speech ended abruptly as Merran's freezing spell caught him unaware. Alistair attempted to counter with a mana cleansing spell, but it bounced back on him, stabbing him with tiny jabs of electric fire inside his armour. He hadn't even detected the spell barrier. It was the last thing he'd expected, his extremities already going numb.

Breathing heavily, Merran raised a shaking hand to her face. It fell, too tired to reach the top of her head to push the hair from her eyes. She'd just used the very last of her mana for those two spells and now she felt barely a shell of a human. It would have been nice to have been able to use some of that magic to give her a bit of a rejuvenating burst so she could make it to the party's camp. Now…she was beyond tired; beyond angry. Heartsore and cranky and feeling like she'd been scraped off the bottom of someone's boot, Merran had neither the energy nor enthusiasm for one of Alistair's anti-mage rants.

He was lucky. If she really had any energy left to spare on him, plaid armour would be the _least _of his problems_._

The horizon flashed ominously. Thunder rumbled. Sucking in a deep breath, Merran raised reddened eyes to her fellow Grey Warden; resentment and fury simmering in her heated gaze.

"_One_," she bared her teeth at him. "It was _Isolde _who chose to sacrifice herself." Hands twisting in Cullen's fur, she swayed forward. "_Two,_ it clearly hasn't occurred to you that even if the mages _were_ able to assist, it would have taken two days to travel to the Tower and back." Energised with exasperation where every other source failed her, Merran raised a fist and pounded on the ice encasing Alistair. "_Two days_ where the demon could have gone on yet another killing rampage!" Shards of ice splintered as she continued to punch the ice, the skin on her knuckles shredding and bleeding.

"How many more people were _you_ willing to sacrifice in those two days, Alistair?" she demanded. "To save one person? How many people do you think are left in Redcliffe right now to die for your _just cause_?"

Her hand fell to her side and she appeared to deflate, weariness taking hold of her once more. "How 'dare' I?" she whispered. Looking out from beneath the matted curtain of her fringe, Merran looked old; far older than she should…and defeated…though the accusation in those older than time eyes was very, very clear.

"How dare _you_ believe that only you have the right to make that decision?"

Stumbling backwards, Merran found Cullen once more close by to make sure she did not fall, supporting her always. Alistair stared back in stunned, frozen silence. There was little else he could do, though she could detect a faint rattle as he shivered in his armour. She didn't care. For once she didn't care. Alistair had been the one who'd deferred the decision to help Bann Teagan to someone else. He'd left the decision to deal with the demon to _someone else._ After Ostagar, he'd left all the preparation; earning coin, purchasing and negotiating essential supplies to _someone else. _He was the senior Grey Warden. Adept at taking charge in actual combat; he was great at ordering her about like a piece in a game of Plonk, quick in his criticism of the way she fought; an expert in mocking her, enthusiastic in arguing with Morrigan, vocal in his disapproval of Zevran…

_And he had the gall…_after refusing to make any decision, any constructive input into the day to day, ordinary stuff, happy to have all those choices made for him…taking the easy way out, leaving the harder things for everyone else…_pouting _and throwing tantrums when things didn't quite go his way…?

_If I had the energy right now, I'd kick him in the squirrel poop and tell him how much of a _jerk _he is…Or maybe have Cullen bite him in the_…But she didn't. Merran had said as much as her exhausted brain and body would allow. She'd not rested since the battle to reclaim Redcliffe Village and the fight with Isolde's demon had taken more out of her than she'd anticipated. Her head hurt as much as her heart and whatever she'd done had re-opened the wound on her leg. It was stinging like mad and she wanted to save what little vigour she had remaining to collapse in a hole somewhere. Somewhere preferably dark. With rats.

Merran turned away. Leaning heavily on Cullen she stumbled under the portcullis across the stone bridge. In a few, long minutes more, she was lost to sight. Alistair – again with little else to do, being frozen to the spot – could only watch her in horror, wondering how long it would take until Merran's magical ice melted enough for him to break free. Attempting to wiggle numb fingers, he became aware of a long shadow then the distinctive, deep rumble of Sten's voice; a sound not unlike the increasingly frequent bursts of thunder above.

The giant barely looked sideways at him. "Is this the Wardens' method for disciplining troops?" the qunari enquired. "If you were a soldier of the _Beresaad_, you would be slain for insubordination."

"Ah, truly?" The elven assassin appeared on the other side of Alistair; a smirk causing Alistair to wish more than ever that his hands were free so that he could throttle the mocking grin from the man's face. Zevran revealed his assassin mind-reading skills by widening that grin. He gave Alistair a long, disturbingly intense look. "Do you not think turning him into an Alistair-sicle is punishment enough?" His eyebrows rose suggestively. "I can think of a number of ways to amuse myself with his unresisting body."

"I do not share your careless attitude," Sten retorted. "Questioning the authority of our leader should have led to his death. I will speak to the mage. She is young, and must be made to see reason." His intent made clear, Sten left; long strides taking him over the lake bridge in less time than it would have taken Alistair to change his underdrawers. While Alistair squirmed, Zevran clucked his tongue in mock pity.

"You Fereldens are _most _interesting," he drawled. "I must say I am enjoying my tour of your beautiful country, immersing myself in your very _quaint_ Ferelden customs." Tapping his chin, Zevran added; "I find it particularly interesting that the parentless princes in this country appear to have such an intriguing sense of _entitlement_." A gurgle of amused laughter followed. "Should you ever find yourself ensconced as the King of Ferelden, be assured that I intend most fully to offer my not inconsequential services to you. I expect you will be _such _a tyrant that I envisage myself making quite a profit from your reign of terror."

At the conclusion of Zevran's speech a rather dramatic flash of lightning zig-zagged across the sky.

"Oh dear…" Leliana's voice said softly from behind. She stopped beside Zevran, her lovely head tipped upwards, observing the rapidly darkening skies thoughtfully. "It looks like rain. Let's not get caught in it, shall we?" Looping an arm around one of the assassin's own, she snuggled in close and the two of them followed the path Merran and Sten had made; the heads of bright blond and deep red far too close for Alistair's comfort. The fact that neither made a single backwards glance at him was another nail in his icy coffin.

Thunder rumbled; far louder and closer than before, followed immediately by the unmistakeable pattering of rain. The shower of even icier water had barely announced itself when the skies truly opened in a torrent that whipped the exposed skin of Alistair's chilled cheeks. His ears ached and while the rain did erode at the armour of ice, it did nothing to melt his frozen everything else. His boots and gloves filled with water, soaking beneath the plate metal and mail to his padded tunic. Cold water dripped down the waistband of his leather trousers, oozing with disconcertingly determined will into his smalls. Whatever ice spell Merran had used was as stubborn and persistent as she was.

And there was nothing he could do, except simply bear this punishment.

Through the curtain of water, Alistair realised he was being watched. He imagined a vague, animal shape observing him from the protective arch of the gate house. It trotted towards him, the rain parting around it, though some drops of water glistened in the deep black of the animal's pelt.

A wolf…with eyes of golden yellow…

Blue light shimmered around the outline of the beast. In seconds, Morrigan stood where the wolf had once been; expressionless but watchful. Warmth washed over Alistair then; just as the witch re-transformed back into her lupine form. Freedom of movement returned to Alistair's limbs, along with feeling. He raised his hands, testing each finger. Satisfied all was as it should be he turned back to Morrigan.

She had gone. Again.

And it seemed he was wrong. Also again.

-oo-

Perched silently on a rock, Merran discreetly watched Redcliffe's remaining inhabitants farewell their dead. Bann Teagan stood at the edge of the lake, alongside his young nephew, gravely directing the proceedings. Leliana was there too, happy to be by the handsome nobleman's side. As yet another flaming arrow arced across the bruised morning sky. Merran spied Ser Perth and his knights preparing a separate funeral barge for their fallen comrade. Ser Tristram was at last reunited with his young family, if only in death.

Merran contemplated the task ahead of them. One of the many at least. Despite the demon's defeat, the Arl continued in his unconscious state. The previous evening had been spent attempting to explain to young Connor Guerrin what had happened – and why – and about the Circle. His mage abilities revealed to too many to maintain the secrecy Isolde had instigated, Teagan had agreed to send the boy to the Circle for further training. As to explaining about the Arlessa…that had been far, far more difficult. As for the Arl...

Another arrow sliced across the pale sky, trailing smoke. After her long hours with Connor, Merran had managed a few hours of broken, disturbed sleep. Despite her fatigue the storm had kept her awake; the dawn arriving far too early for her liking. A cure had to be found to reawaken the Arl...and the Ashes of Andraste were to be their next target.

She'd also remembered she'd left Alistair out in the rain.

A now familiar tingle at the base of her skull accompanied a hesitant step behind her. _Speaking of the Pout Demon…_

"I ah…" Merran heard him begin, followed by a metallic _chink._ "Are you…?" _Tink, tink, tink._ _Heavy sigh…_"I'm sorry," Alistair told her sincerely, his still-damp boots creaking as he took another step forward. "Look, I know that probably doesn't count for much. Maker knows I probably owe you a year's worth of apologies, not to mention some simple respect, but…"

Merran squeezed her eyes closed. "Apology accepted Alistair."

He sat next to her tentatively, fingers steepled on his knees. She wrinkled her nose. Alistair smelled like a mouldy cellar; the two watching the funeral barges being launched one after the other silently. After a while, he stole a glance at his fellow Grey Warden. Shadows ringed her sunken eyes and there was a dullness to them that made his mental list of _Things to Feel Guilty About_ even longer.

He took a deep breath. He was…probably going to make her feel worse by the end of the morning.

Clearing his throat, Alistair started again. "Morrigan…told me the Arlessa was possessed." He risked a look up at her, but her expression remained unchanging. "And…" _Chink, tink. _"Jowan said that it was the demon who did all the-" Alistair stopped abruptly at the sudden tightening of her jaw. In truth it hadn't been Morrigan that had told him Isolde had been possessed, but Jowan. Morrigan had only confirmed the fact, but given Merran's avoidance of the ex-Circle mage, Alistair wasn't too sure how much he could get away with mention of him.

_Well, now I know._

And…his armour _was _still that hated colour. And…well never mind _Jowan; _Alistair wasn't even sure _he_ would get away with coming anywhere near Merran. It was just…_blood magic_...his training wouldn't let him overlook it.

"So I…" _I wish she'd just get on with it and set my hair on fire. This silence is unnerving._ "Look…" he tried again. "I know the two of you are close…" That statement elicited a sniffle from her. "That the two of you were fr-"

"I told him I never want to speak to him again," Merran whiffled. _Ah…I see, _Alistair thought. "Blood magic!" _Sneef._ "I _told _him – back in the Tower - before we left. 'Don't do it', I said. 'It'll end in tears', I said. I knew he was already under suspicion. I'd overheard the Knight Commander and Irving talking about making him _Tranquil_…The First Enchanter was going to give Jowan another chance…" Her fists clenched and her breath hitched in her throat.

"Jowan said Blood Mages tried to take over the Tower…" Merran was crying outright now, sobbing in between her words. Alistair kept his hands firmly on his knees, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and let her make his armour even more rusty.

"How much bloody blood magic did he use to escape?" Merran demanded. "How many people…how many people did he _hurt_? And Iso…I never want to do that again." She shook her head vehemently. "_Ever_. Jowan was the closest thing I had to a brother. A family. I trusted him. But…but…" She turned a tear-streaked face towards Alistair and he had to fend off another impulse to hug her. "Maybe this is all my fault…Because I abandoned him. Because I wouldn't stay by his side. Because I was too busy becoming a Grey Warden…Because I didn't listen enough or…I don't know. I knew, but I don't know…"

"So…" Alistair found himself exhaling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Events at the Circle Tower aside, you don't think destroying the demon was a kindness to Isolde after all?" He sighed. "You were right Merran. _Right. _There was just enough humanity in the Arlessa to make that last decision. A decision only she could have made. Not you and certainly not me. I was…I _am_…an _ass._"

"Yes you are," she agreed…far too promptly. It made Alistair's mouth twitch in a half-formed smile which faded on his next thought.

"Well!" He tried a more cheerful tack. "Funny that." _Ahem. _"Because you're going to think I'm even more of an ass after you find out what I've done with Jowan." Slapping his knee, his feeble attempt at laughter sounded even more pathetic. _Oh Maker, I'm not going to live to lunch, am I? I'll be lucky if I make it to the Archdemon._

Merran's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Alistair…" she asked slowly. "What…_have _you done with Jowan?"

"Well, you said you couldn't trust him anymore!" he reminded her helpfully.

"What have you _done_?"

"And I thought: what better way to deal with a blood mage than to…you know…"

"_What _have you done?" Merran turned to face him. "And will you stop doing that? The sound is driving me nuts."

_Ah…Oh…_Alistair followed her glare. He'd resumed tapping his fingers together…_chink, tink, chink, tink, tink…oh dear and now I've made her angry again._ When he looked up, he found the dilapidated edge of a pinwheel vane pointing threateningly at his nose and…_Maker! _The fire had returned to her eyes. Despite death poking him firmly in the left nostril, his heart did a little leap of joy. He'd also never realised what _pretty _eyes she had. Not just brown at all, but with a ring of soft green on the inside.

"Spill your guts, Templar!" those pretty eyes flashed at him. "Or so help me, I'll spill them for you!"

"Ah…ha, ha, ha. You're going to laugh. Really. Um."

"Try me!"

"It's. Uh."

"Go _on…!_"

"I've conscripted Jowan."

-oo-


	16. Plan B

Thank you sooo much for all the wonderful reviews and to all you marvellous people who take the time to read this. It's truly extraordinary and you all make my day!

Special thanks to _Gamine; __my ideas fairy_.

-oo-

**Chapter 16 – Plan B**

_He…WHAT? _Merran glared at Alistair; tiny sparks of electricity spinning from the corners of her eyes. Her arm came up, slowly, ponderously; the tip of her pinwheel aimed squarely at the centre of his chest, vanes crackling ominously.

"_Run, Templar_…" She thought it would be fair – seeing as he was her fellow Grey Warden – to give him a warning. "You. Had. Better. _Run_…"

Alistair did not need to be told twice, even though technically, he just had been. He inched backwards, hands held protectively in front of him. Not that a pair of hands clad in flimsy skin and muscle and a bit of leather would be protection enough…Not against a furious mage like Merran and…_Maker, those eyes…_it was worth making her angry just to see her eyes blaze like molten jewels; which he knew was a completely unrealistic and incredibly corny description, but his brain kept wandering down dangerously poetic paths, instead of telling him to flee to the nearest place he could call shelter…with thick walls and the protection of perhaps a sturdy golem or…a mountain.

Failing that, he could always…"Ow, ow, ow! You bloody, bloated, blighted…_fatherless child…!_"

Whistling a cheerful tune under his breath, Alistair casually drew his sword and leaned on the pommel as Merran lay curled on the ground, clutching at her head. _Oh dear…did I overdo that Holy Smite…? How careless of me…_Raising his hand, he inspected the stitching on his leather gloves, in case his 'exertions' in neutralising the mage had scratched the leather or…something. Satisfied there was no lasting damage, he placed the point of his sword on Merran's back.

"And so Alistair…Grey Warden…Defender of man, once more foils the machinations of the evil witch-mage. And lo! The people of Ferelden did rejoice and all was _gurgh!"_

Alistair found himself face down in the dirt next to Merran with a very heavy, very _wet _mabari growling menacingly and damply into his ear. The noisy clang of his fall caused the solemn proceedings of the Redcliffe funeral to cease abruptly. The Bann turned, scowling at the interruption, but all he and the other villages could see was the young Warden mage, demurely perched beside her immense mabari. She nodded regally, the funeral services continued. Only Bella, the pretty waitress from the Redcliffe tavern winked conspiratorially before she too, returned to the grim procession.

Under Merran's hastily spread robes, Alistair's muffled voice emerged sourly. "You know," grumbled. "Two against one is _cheating._"

"All's fair in loathe and war," Merran snorted, unmoved.

"That's 'love'," Alistair corrected. "Can't you even get the quote right?"

"What's love got to do with you?" Merran retorted.

Ceasing to struggle, Alistair pondered the question then; "Um…Everything?"

"Nope, not convinced," was the all-too-quick response.

"Because I'm so irresistibly, adorably, endearingly _loveable_?" Alistair argued, as though it was as obvious as the cute little nose on her face. What he received however was not a flowery acknowledgement of his adorableness, but a gagging, retching sound.

"Urgh…I think you're making my mabari ill. And you _don't _want to know what she had for dinner last night." In support of her mistress, Cullen started making canine, _hurking _noises. Alistair struggled upright again, to find Cullen's growl back in his ear.

"Fine! Fine!" He managed to work a hand free, holding it palm facing out in surrender. "I kneel…bow…or in this _particular _case; lie most uncomfortably on my stomach in a full set of plate armour with my codpiece cutting off circulation to…well never mind about that. Peace, Merran…please…just – ouch – tell me how I can – blimey my…! – _just-_"

"Why did you conscript him?"

The oddly intense tone in her voice stilled his struggle. Alistair closed his eyes; and not just because he realised that his current view included a rather nice, long expanse of her upper thigh, but so he could review the reasons he'd had for conscripting the blood mage. _Why did I recruit Jowan again..?_

"I…" He knew he had to be careful what he said. On the other hand, if he wasn't _honest…_"Keeping a blood mage close," he told her, even if acknowledgement of Jowan's association with blood magic was hurtful to her. "It…just made sense," he added with a sigh. "We can watch him; make sure he doesn't…again…"

Merran slid off his back, her bottom making contact with the ground with a depressed thump. "He isn't a blood mage," she stated firmly.

Alistair sighed again. "Merran-"

"Because if he does anything like that again I will _kill _him myself_._"

Alistair half rose; Cullen having fallen asleep across his legs. He'd opened his mouth to say something pithy when he realised how _close _the two of them were; the realisation causing the flesh inside his armour to heat most uncomfortably. If she turned at this very moment, she'd see that he'd turned beet red, so it was just as well that she…_Holy Maker! I can see right down her…_

"_Sqwrrk…"_

"Oh there you are!"

Alistair leapt to his feet so fast, Cullen went flying. Woken so rudely, she made her displeasure known by head-butting the offender in a place that caused another unintelligible squeak and the shedding of some tears. Merran rose too, completely uninterested in what was occurring behind her, her gaze fixed coolly on the newcomer.

"I…take it by the look on your face, that he's told you" Jowan greeted her with a self-deprecating grimace then frowned at the Templar. "Is he alright? His face is all red."

"He's fine. Ignore him Jowan," Merran folded her arms. "And yes as it happens, I have been informed of the present state of your employment." Annoyed by the commotion behind her and the fact it was completely _ruining _the moment, Merran jabbed her elbow back hard, catching Alistair in the unprotected area between the two halves of his armour. "Will you behave yourself?" she hissed. "This is serious!"

Alistair's flushed countenance appeared above Merran's right shoulder. "No, no honestly, I promise I wasn't looking down her…" Catching Merran's expression he cleared his throat hastily. "I'm sorry, did I just interrupt…What were we discussing again?"

"Blood magic!" Merran reminded him in tiny shots of annoyance. "Conscription! Grey Warden!" Gritting her teeth she added; "Templar…_Death by strangulation_. Happy Merran!"

"Merran…" Jowan moved forward, extending a hand, his light blue eyes pleading. "Don't blame Alistair, please. This is all my-"

"'Alistair'?" Merran snorted. "Oh, so you're on first name terms with each other already? When's the wedding? I'll send you a dinner set."

"Oh, very mature," Jowan rolled his eyes. "Will you listen to me, please?" His tone of voice turned wheedling. Alistair snorted to himself. _He honestly doesn't think Merran will fall for that act, does he? _"I promise not to do any more blood magic. I just…I want to make a contribution too. In any way I can." Gathering both her hands in his, Jowan looked deep into Merran's eyes. "To help stop the Blight. With you."

Hugging her hands to her chest elicited another sceptical snort from Alistair. "I missed you, you know." Jowan's bottom lip turned down. "The Tower just wasn't the same without you," he added earnestly. "I know how much you wanted to be a Grey Warden. I was so happy for you but the place just seemed so…_empty_ without you." Transferring his hands to her shouders; Jowan bent, touching his forehead to hers. Alistair, still standing far too close blinked in confusion. _What the Fade kind of relationship do these two have anyway…?_

"I missed you Merran," Jowan whispered, the mage's voice even raising the hairs along _Alistair's _neck. "…wondering whether you were safe out here…I was worried."

_Alistair's jaw fell open. __They're…married? Wait. Mages don't get married. But…! _

"I _didn't _use blood magic to escape from the Tower," Jowan said softly. "_Or_ after I'd left it. Except for the ritual earlier, I'd never…_please_ believe me."

Merran stepped back, batting Jowan's hands away, though it was clear her anger was now half-hearted. As the distance widened between them; the back of her head collided with Alistair's chest plate. Sandwiched between two tall, rather imposing men; one pleading the other…she didn't know what the heck Alistair was doing back there or why he was even still _here_, but she found herself reaching back, clutching at his gauntlet like a security blanket.

Fixing her gaze on the Circle symbol embroidered into the neckline of Jowan's robes, Merran drew a deep breath. "If you've never used it, then…how do you know about blood magic? The ritual?" she asked, frightened of the answer.

"Why…" Jowan's head drooped. "Because I was trained," he explained simply. "By a Circle Mage." Acknowledging her disbelief with a wave of his hand, he added. "Months before you left for Ostagar, I was approached by a group of mages – Libertarians, if you must know – sounding out possible candidates; supporters. I didn't mean to deceive you, _honestly, __but once I was approached, I knew that I was being watched._ I _had_ to be careful. Merran, they were dabbling in _mind control, _amongst other things. At the time, I didn't know to what purpose exactly but…when you went away and Lily told me I was going to be made Tranquil well I…I panicked."

Jowan gripped Merran's arms, forcing her to look at him. "You might have heard that the First Enchanter was going to give me a second chance, but it wasn't true. I was going to be made Tranquil regardless. As an _example._" He snorted unhappily. "And the blood mages were going to dispose of me anyway. Caught between death and being made Tranquil I…and then Ostagar happened and Uldred returned and…_Maker_, everything went even more pear-shaped after that."

For a few moments, Merran stood silent, merely staring ahead. Behind her, Alistair pursed his lips, desperately trying not to laugh. _Andraste's steaming gumboots, that was the most pathetic story I've ever heard…If Merran falls for that, I'm going to eat my cheese hat._

"I'm sorry Merran," Jowan spoke in the tense silence. "I was such a fool. The only important thing now is…For you to forgive me…To let me be your friend again."

"_Snrk…ow!" _Merran's elbow caught Alistair in that sensitive spot under his arm again. Barely a moment later she'd wrapped her arms tightly about Jowan with a mighty sniff.

"Of course, I forgive you, Jowan!" Merran told him wetly. "Of _course _I'm still your friend." She looked up at him through tear-reddened eyes. "Blood magic is so, so dangerous. I was worried for you. How could you abuse yourself like that? My bestest, most _precious _friend _ever!_"

Sighing Jowan hugged Merran back, resting his chin on the top of her head. With Merran's face tucked in protectively against his chest, he threw a smug glare at Alistair. _Yeah, Templar boy…Holy Smite _this…_!_

"What did you say you _weren't _looking at again?" Jowan prompted Alistair, knowing all too well what it was the perving, lecherous Templar had been doing before he was interrupted.

"I was…" Alistair knew a challenge – and a threat – when it was being issued. "Nothing…actually."

"Good," Jowan lifted his chin aggressively. _Touch Merran and you're a dead man_. "Glad to hear it."

-oo-

"I'm not staying behind."

Morrigan accepted the decision without argument. As did Jowan. As much as the former Circle apprentice wanted to stay by Merran's side, he knew he could not go within any distance of the Mages' Tower. Both however, understood the need to claim the treaty with the Mages. The Grey Wardens needed to find this…Brother Genitivi in Denerim and the Circle Tower was on the way. All they need do was extract a promise from the First Enchanter and Knight Commander for mages to fight the Blight and then they could concentrate on the ashes of Andraste for the ill Arl Eamon.

"Did you hear me?"

Both tasks made Merran uneasy. She was afraid of what she might find at Kinloch Hall, or even if she would find anyone still alive there. As for the ashes…Bann Teagan had confidence they existed and he'd been so kind to them that Merran could not, in conscience, deny his request to help find the Ashes of Andraste. The Arl's troops might be scattered all over Ferelden, but they were still an _army; _something the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden desperately needed. There was no guarantee that they could find the dwarves and elves, much less be sure both groups would agree to honour the treaties. They had to start somewhere. Giving up on Redcliffe troops – not to mention a powerful ally against Teyrn Loghain – was not an option.

"I'm coming with you."

And so…it was decided. Morrigan, Jowan and Alistair would remain here in Redcliffe, while she, Zevran, Sten, Leliana and Cullen would first head to Kinloch Hold to speak with the First Enchanter then to Denerim to find Genitivi. First, she had to finalise her business in Redcliffe Village; collecting supplies and visiting Owen the blacksmith (because she hadn't forgotten his daughter Velanna in amongst all the demon and living dead slaying). Her last stop was the Chantry and Mother Hannah. Merran had promised to look in on some of the injured there and the Revered Mother had mentioned something about 'replacement clothes'. It would be good to find something other than the tattered, stained garb Jowan had been in.

"Nuh uh."

Finished with her inspection of some bandages on a child, Merran straightened, kneading at her sore back muscles. Running a hand through her hair, she turned and bumped into a wall of metal.

Again.

"Urgh. Alistair!"

He'd gripped her arms, to prevent her from falling. She scowled up at him. "Are you…following me?" she asked.

"Have you heard me?" he demanded. "At all?"

Behind Merran, Mother Hannah returned, carrying a sack of cloth and muttering unintelligibly in the odd, irascible dialect reserved exclusively to those persons who had lived for several decades and were therefore _entitled_ to be irascibly unintelligible.

"I've been telling you," Alistair added, enunciating quite clearly (unlike Mother Hannah) to ensure that he was understood. "That you are _not _leaving me behind."

Merran tried squeezing past him, but his bulky armour – and elbows – prevented her. Attempting to push him out of the way only made him question her sanity. A pint-sized mage versus a Grey Warden in full plate armour who'd spent the last ten years learning how to _immobilise _mages? There could only be one winner in that particular battle.

And if Alistair wasn't so smug about it, Merran would have given up and declared him the winner. As it _was…_

"I need you to _stay_ and look after Jowan…" Gritting her teeth, Merran braced her shoulder into his chest plate and pushed as hard as she could. Her feet slipped and her shoulder ached, but the damned wall of muscle and metal barely wobbled. "_Gngg…as _a Templar…!" she added.

"Almost a Templar," he corrected. By the simple act of placing his hand atop her head, he held her at arm's length, blinking in amusement at her attempt to fight against him. He'd locked his elbow and she weighed slightly less than a butterfly. Did she seriously think she could move him without magical means?

"Never took my final vows, remember? No, _I'm_ a Grey Warden," he stated. "And Grey Wardens stick together. The importance of a united front in these troubled times have never been more…um…important," he added, striking the air with a righteous finger. "The last two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden? No, no, no, we must stand united! For united, only can we show Ferelden that we are strong! Show the world that together we are a force to be reckoned with; to defeat every darkspawn; to climb every mountain; ford every stream…Follow every rainbow unt-"

Merran could not clamp her hand over Alistair's mouth fast enough…just as hastily removing it_…__Eww…! What kind of a freak __slobbers __on other people's hands…?_

"You are not to break into song!" she admonished him. The very idea of Alistair going into some choreographed pantomime…with Mother Hannah and the Sisters joining in and dancing down the aisle was just…Even if the very idea of Alistair in a dress was_…__ if it's a very pretty dress…a little off the shoulder frothy confection with lots of gold to match his eyes…Ooh…_

"Nug poop, you _sick, _twisted individual!"

Alistair narrowed his eyes. _What was all that about? _And why had her face turned so pink all of a sudden? "Anyway…" Alistair oh-so-casually leant against the doorframe, preparing to release his secret weapon. "Duncan would have wanted – expected - us to stay together…" _Ah…observe the little face…_Alistair began the checklist in his head. _Surprise…because she hadn't seen that coming. Check. Realisation…because of _course _it would be something Duncan would say. Check. Guilt…my favourite. Maker, I learned enough of _that _at the monastery. If I'm not an expert by now, I deserve to be licorice whipped and feathered with tar. _Finally…_Ah…Acceptance. Good girl…I'm so glad not to be disappointed…_

So why did _he _feel so guilty about it all?

"You're right…" the shy smile she bestowed on him twisted the knife of guilt into his gut. _That's what I get for manipulating my fellow Grey Warden…Duncan would be so disappointed…_"You're right Alistair…You should come along. But mind you behave yourself and _no_ wearing dresses, okay? No matter how well you think they show off your charming figure."

"_Eh, _what?"

"Got it!"

Merran turned at the Revered Mother's exultant cry. The older woman was holding up a pair of boy's trousers and a dun-coloured, long-sleeved tunic of rough, woven material. "I'm sorry I don't have anything like _robes _for you, Warden," Mother Hannah smiled at Merran. "But this will certainly make running around after darkspawn much easier." She paused to throw a sharp look at Alistair. "Not to mention, covering up your _legs_…"

Forcing his mind away from mention of dresses and Duncan's disappointment, Alistair realised what the Revered Mother was implying. _But I…I wasn't looking at her…well, they were on display so I couldn't help it but…Wait._

_No more leg? _

_Damn…!_

-oo-

_Kinloch Hold…_

Merran looked behind, grimacing at the sight of Alistair in his Templar armour. Redcliffe seemed an awfully long way away but…better to get this over and done with.

A quick murmur under her breath and Alistair's armour lost its colourful, carnival colours. Once more the staid, metallic boring grey it had been designed to be, he did not look so out of place, even if by removing the orange and green plaid design, a bit of cheer had been removed from the atmosphere.

Not that there wasn't already a grimness to this side of Lake Calenhad. More than usual in fact. Standing beneath the sign pointing towards the _Spoiled Princess, _Merran sniffed the air, wishing she'd brought Morrigan this far at the least. Except Templars still mustered on the Lake Calenhad docks and it was too risky. On the other hand, it didn't look like there was anyone about. Certainly not the usual numbers usually here. Exchanging a look with Cullen, Merran started down the steep path towards the dock. Faint music could be heard coming from the direction of the _Princess, _along with the sound of voices. It was cold; a thick fog lay thickly on the ground which might explain why the grounds were deserted but…it wasn't that late in the day. There should still be plenty of traffic - and people - about.

And then it was not Kester waiting by his boat, but Ser Carroll of all people; paring an apple and looking bored and listless. As the Grey Wardens approached he straightened, giving Merran a keen, penetrating look before his mouth twisted disapprovingly.

"Oh," he greeted them with indifference. "It's _you._"

Merran straightened her shoulders. "We are Grey Wardens," she stated in her most official voice. "And we wish to be convey-"

"No," Ser Carroll cut her off with a sneer. "No one's to go anywhere. Knight Commander's orders. The Tower's been closed."

"Closed? What do you mean closed?" Alistair stepped up. "We're on official Grey Warden business!"

"Don't care," Ser Carroll sniffed. "Got my orders. You're not going across, so there."

"Well, you had better damn well care because-" Leliana stepped between the two men hastily, pressing the heel of her boot into Alistair's foot as a warning. She smiled her most charming smile at Ser Carroll, who perked up as he hadn't done for either Merran or Alistair.

"Now Ser Carroll…" Leliana leaned forward, fluttering her eyelashes. "As my colleague mentioned, we are on important Grey Warden business. Your dedication is to be admired, but perhaps we can work something out, yes? Something that will be beneficial for all, while remaining respectful of your duty."

Behind Leliana, Alistair rolled his eyes. Merran however peeked around Leliana's shoulder. "We have cookies…"

Ser Carroll made a face at the mage, but…"Cookies eh?" His eyes strayed towards Leliana; or more accurately, her décolletage. "Very well, but I won't take responsibility for any of you. Once you're there, it's nothing to do with me. The Knight Commander _specifically _ordered me to-"

"Yes, yes, thank you Carroll," Merran made shooing motions at the pouting Templar. "Can we go now?"

Ser Carroll made an even more sour face at Merran, "Come along then and make it quick!" he told them all, as though it hadn't been _Merran _that had prompted him to move. "I don't have all day. And where are those cookies you promised?"

The party piled into Kester's boat. As soon as Ser Carroll untied the moorings and began punting them towards the dark spire in the distance, the fog closed in around them. Merran shivered, pressing in close to Cullen for warmth. The mabari was like a furnace and her bulk was comforting. If the Knight Commander had closed the Tower then it meant things were worse than she thought. She wondered whether Greagoir was still alive or the…others…?

"We're here," Ser Carroll announced all too soon. "Get out. Off you go."

Filing out of the boat in silence, the Grey Warden party watched the Templar disappear across the water into the mists. The doors to Kinloch Hall were unguarded; unusual in itself; the approach to them bathed in eerie silence.

"Cheery lad," Alistair snorted, breaking the silence. "And people wonder why I never wanted to take my final vows?" He pointed into the darkness, in the direction Ser Carroll had gone. "There's your proof, right there."

Giving a huff of nervous laughter, Merran crossed the damp grounds to the Tower entrance. The absence of guards felt wrong. The quiet even more so. Pushing the doors slightly ajar, she peeked inside, scoping out the situation. She didn't want a blood mage catching them unawares…Alistair stepped up behind her, curious and wary. Wondering why Merran was being so overly cautious, Sten peeked over Alistair's spiky hair, while Cullen squeezed her head between Merran's legs, sniffing around the corner. It was then that Knight Commander Greagoir returned to check on his men…to see a totem pole of heads between the open doors.

For a few seconds, he merely stared, unsure exactly what he was seeing, until the head second from the bottom began to look familiar.

He scowled. "Oh," he growled, "it's _you…_"

Alistair lifted an eyebrow at Merran, "You get that a _lot_ around here."

Throwing the doors open scattered the heads. Merran bounced into the room, waving her arms in relief. "Hellooo Greagoir!" she greeted him enthusiastically. Turning back, she grinned at the others. "Hey everyone! It's Knight Commander Greagoir!" Coming to a juddering halt in front of the still-scowling Knight Commander, Merran saluted. "And might I say you're looking _particularly _shiny today, Knight Commander!"

The Knight Commander growled in displeasure. Critical eyes surveyed Irving's runaway mage and her companions. Any mage who had left the Circle was not to be trusted and _this _one…unusual that she should return and in the company of…a dog, a heathen giant, an _elf, _some…woman possibly of ill-repute and…His gaze fell finally on Alistair and the very distinct emblem of Andraste's flaming sword. His eyes narrowed…_a rogue Templar…_

"The Grey Wardens still collecting riff and raff, I see," the Knight Commander Greagoir.

"Aw…you cuddly old teddy bear Greagoir!" Merran tittered. "I missed you too!"

The Knight Commander bestowed a particularly _dour _scowl on the diminutive mage. "I'm not sorry that I don't share that particular sentiment, Grey Warden," he snapped, at which point Alistair stepped up. Deftly positioning himself between the Senior-most Templar and mage, he herded his fellow Grey Warden backwards out of harm's way. Merran had not been this perky since Lothering. It made him downright nervous, though to be honest – recalling the way she had fought in Redcliffe - _grim _and serious Merran made him nervous too. Really, travelling in her company was quite terrifying at times.

"Knight Commander," Alistair offered a Chantry salute. "We came hoping for an audience with the First Enchanter, though it looks as though you have some problems of your own." He gestured towards the far end of the room. He'd recognised the wards on the closed doors and by the look of the Templars guarding them; they had not been opened for anyone. Or any…_thing. _

"The last I remember," Alistair commented, "locking the door and throwing away the key was Templar plan B."

"A plan that does not concern you Grey Wardens," the Knight Commander snapped impatiently. "And until reinforcements arrive from Denerim _that_ door will remain barred to all." Instead of…Greagoir's gaze passed over Merran Amell again and he winced…a nightmare returning in the form of _this _mage. No, the Templars from Denerim could not arrive soon enough.

"Well you know what they say!" Merran stepped cheerfully out from behind Alistair. "You can take the mage out of the tower, but you can't take the tower out of the mage!" She guffawed, slapping her leg in amusement. "Right? Right? Although I _imagine_ it would be _pretty _darned painful getting it _into _the mage in the first place." She pointed a finger at the Knight Commander. "But that's what Templars are for eh, Knight Commander?"

"This is hardly the time to jest, Warden," Greagoir informed them sternly. As the rogue Templar appeared fairly reasonable, he addressed his next statement to him. "I shall speak plainly. The tower, as you've surmised is no longer under our control." Glancing at Merran, he added, "I blame our complacency; our leniency towards mages such as _you__. _I have called for the Rite of Annulment."

"Annulment?" Leliana exclaimed, clearly familiar with this particular strategy. "Surely there must be survivors? Mages are not completely defenceless."

The Knight Commander sighed, his eyes haunted this time. "Not just mages," he told them grimly, "but my men too. Know this: I do not make this decision lightly. I have a responsibility. We must not let a single abomination escape from this Tower." Pacing before them, the Knight Commander kneaded at his temples. "We are dealing with blood mages here," he reminded them all. "Normally one or two is not a problem, but this…_this _is an army of abominations. I cannot allow my remaining men to be put at risk. The Rite of Annulment is the _only _way!"

"No it isn't."

Alistair turned, wondering when Grim Merran would turn up. _Now I know…_

"If anyone can survive an onslaught of blood mages," Merran stated quietly. "It would be Irving."

The Knight Commander stared in surprise at the smaller Grey Warden, clearly not as familiar with this version of Merran Amell that her companions were. To his credit, Greagoir recovered quickly, his glare returning once more. "True…" he said slowly. "But you would need to fight your way through uncountable abominations to find him."

Merran shrugged. "This I will do-"

"_We _will do," Alistair corrected her pointedly.

"And if we find the First Enchanter," Merran continued as thought she had not been interrupted. "We find Irving, bring him back…defeating all and everything in our way…Will you accept an assurance from the First Enchanter that all is safe? The Rite of Annulment will be revoked?"

Greagoir considered the mage's words carefully, looking for likely traps and pitfalls. "If you can defeat the abominations and bring Irving back safe…yes. If indeed Irving believes the evil in this Tower has been vanquished, then I will revoke the Rite." Leaning forward, the Knight Commander pinned Merran with a chilly, warning glare. "But I warn you Grey Wardens," he added. Once you cross _that_ threshold, there will be no turning back. The door _will_ remain barred until I have received – as you say – Irving's assurance that the Tower is no longer in danger."

Alistair began to relax. Merran was back in serious Grey Warden mode. All would be well and…and then she rolled her eyes. A raspberry emerged from her lips. "Well, that's kind of stupid," she snorted – Alistair dropped his head into his hands - "How do you expect to see Irving, if you won't open the blasted doors to let us back out? Duh!"

-oo-


	17. Grey to Fade

-oo-

**Chapter 17 – Grey to Fade**

The closing of the heavy metal doors echoed seemingly endlessly through the curved, deserted stone corridor. With a giggle, Merran unlinked her arm from Leliana's and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. Alistair eyed her in disapproval. Despite the gravity of the situation she and Leliana had skipped into the Apprentices Dormitory singing _Onward Golden Warrior of Andraste. _Well, bellowing might be a more accurate term than 'singing', though considering the assassin had joined in, substituting certain words with rude ones, perhaps it was just as well.

_Well, it's done…_They were locked in until they could find the First Enchanter, his body or they all died here by abomination. For all Alistair knew, the dark look on the Knight Commander's face could very well have meant he was happy to be rid of them so the Tower could be razed to the ground without their interference.

Running a gauntleted hand through his hair, Alistair gave himself a mental kick. _Stop being so negative! _The Knight Commander was a man of honour, surely? He had given them his _word. _Unless of course, the senior-most Templar in Ferelden had some kind of arrangement with General Loghain to do away with them and _then _they would be in real troub…_Stop! You're doing it again…!_

So occupied by thoughts and counter-thoughts was Alistair that he did not see Merran bend her ear to the closed barrier doors, listening to the activity on the other side and by the time he realised what her sneaky grin meant, it was too late. She'd rapped twice on the metal, yelling cheerfully: "Knock, knock!"

_Oh Maker…_

Alistair stretched out his arm, his feet feeling as though they were encased in treacle, just as a voice on the other side replied nervously: "Who's…there?"

Stifling another giggle, Merran and Leliana exchanged mirthful glances before she replied: "Arch!"

"Arch who?" the voice on the other side enquired.

"Bless yo…aw, _Alistair_!"

Having successfully yanked here away from the doors, he scolded; "That's quite enough from _you_, young lady!"

She pouted at him. Alistair ignored her. As the slightly more _adult _of the two Grey Wardens in the vicinity, he felt it both his responsibility and duty to ensure – in a tower full of militant blood mages, demons, abominations and nervous Templars – they did not antagonise, worry or irritate the before-mentioned individuals. In the case of Merran Amell, this might be a little too late. _Andraste's smoking pinkies, the longer I spend in Merran's company the more attractive death by Archdemon gets…!_

He raised his finger, waggling it in warning. Yet, no more words of censure came to mind when she turned large, luminous brown-hazel eyes up at him. _Darn!_ His anger fizzled. A moment later a soft, impatient _hrumphf _emerged from Cullen as she and Sten brushed past; the giant muttering something vaguely intelligible about scouting ahead. As Sten drew his greatsword from its scabbard at the same time it was clear by 'scouting' he meant 'killing everything in sight'.

Alistair watched them go, distracted for the moment when Merran's annoyed voice said; "You've turned into such a grumpy grizzle pants, do you know that?"

Zevran and Leliana strode past too. As Leliana passed by, she winked at Merran, eyebrows wiggling suggestively in a gesture that Merran failed to decipher and Alistair refused to acknowledge.

"Grump, grump, grump…" Merran continued, poking him in the chest with each word. "You're just no fun."

_Fun?_ Alistair folded his arms across his chest and glared down the length of his nose at Merran. "Aren't we supposed to be saving the world here?" he reminded. _Maker, what is wrong with her?_ "The last time I looked, all of this wasn't a laughing matter."

_Her response was a loud and long raspberry._ _Oh…so ladylike…_

"Is it so hard to try and find the lighter side in all this darkness?" she demanded, copying his tone of voice. "Or do you always wake up on the wrong side of the bedroll? Because no one else plays Prince Whiny the way you do." With a smirk she added, "Did you get bitten by the Grumble Bug perhaps? Ate Unhappy Pie by mistake? Donned your sad sack smalls? Did a-"

"All right…all right…I get your point," Alistair grumbled at her. "But I don't see how _anyone _could see the bright side in _any _of this. Maferath's marbles_, is_ there a bright side? Ostagar, General Loghain, the betrayal – and death - of our King…" He began ticking each item off a finger. "The near destruction of our entire Order in one single battle that should have been won…Not to _mention_ our reputations besmirched across the entire length and breadth of the country; a bounty placed on our heads _and _a distinct and worrying lack of cheese in our inventory…" Near the end of his list, Alistair paused. Merran had ceased glaring at him in defiance and was now contemplating the stained rug. _Good, _he thought with smug satisfaction_. Maybe she'll start taking all of this seriously now…!_

Though…the tiny Alistair in the back of his head wanted to agree with her. Ever since Ostagar it had been one depressing event after the other and the atmosphere in this place did not help; the word 'creepy' coming to mind. He'd visited the Tower of Magi only once in his life, but it was enough to give him an idea how the place should be: busy, bustling, crowded. The Apprentices' level should be teeming with activity at this time of the day, not shrouded in silence. He couldn't even hear the others anymore, as though the walls of the tower had swallowed them whole, draining everything else of life and colour and Merran…this had been her home once. What must she feel right now? Angry? Scared? Had she been playing around to distract herself from the horribleness of this place?

It's what _he _would have done, if he hadn't been forced to be the one being all grown up and responsible.

He sighed, raised a hand, intending to place it on her shoulder, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it, running his gloved fingers through his hair instead. "Merran," he began seriously. "This isn't about being able to see the bright side of things is it? What's going on in your head? Apart from the usual fuzzy, that is?"

Her mouth quirked, but it fell short of a full smile before turning down at the corners. "I can't help but feel this whole…_situation_ with the Tower has something to do with what happened at Ostagar," she spoke quietly. "Not just in the way Jowan described, but to do with the General. He's at the heart of all of this. I just know it."

"Then the sooner we gather our allies," Alistair reminded her, "the better, right?"

She looked up at him again, this time with eyes filled with hope and relief. It was a golden moment; two Grey Wardens finally connecting against a common foe; a single target. Alistair began to think he might actually get on with his fellow traveller after all when she thumped him. Hard. "Awwwww…" she sang mockingly.

"Ow," he scowled.

"See?" She smacked him again. "You _can_ be all soft and gushy!" she declared. "Why, I can almost imagine you as a human being. I'm so prou-"

"Come no further demons, or I will strike you where you stand!"

Merran stiffened at the unknown voice, her eyes going wide. Without another word she stepped aside and rushed down the corridor. Alistair followed a second later, entering the next area just as a shockwave of lightning crackled around their companions, causing Alistair's armour to spark and fizz. He ducked, catching sight of Merran dropping into a defensive stance; her pinwheel directed at the lightning. A wash of cool passed over them and Merran yelping…"Yeargh! Wynne!"

The wall of lightning dissolved in a curtain of soft sparkles, revealing a white-haired, elderly mage clutching a hand to her breast.

"Makers Breath!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you say something earlier? I could have electrocuted you all!"

"Sorry Senior Enchanter," Merran grimaced, shaking the last of the sparkles from her hair. "Too slow."

The elderly mage harrumphed, narrowing her eyes at the new arrival in clear disapproval. "Why have you returned to the Tower?" she demanded. "Has Greagoir sent you to warn us? I thought you had left with the Grey Wardens."

"The Knight Commander doesn't expect anyone to be alive still to warn," Alistair informed her before Merran could reply. "Just to let you know; he's called for the Rite of Annulment…_unless _we can find the First Enchanter whole, unharmed and in his right mind."

The white haired mage shook her head. "Yes, I can imagine Greagoir saying that, though I had hoped he would show _some _reason at least." Sighing, she added; "The Rite of Annulment. He must truly believe this Tower lost." Eyeing Merran, Alistair and the others with a speculative eye, she harrumphed again. "Well then," she stated, puffing out her ample chest. "If finding the First Enchanter is all that Greagoir will accept then find Irving we must!"

The mage called Wynne continued eyeing Merran expectantly. "Well?" she demanded. "Are we agreed?"

Alistair looked at Merran. _The bright side…_There was definitely no bright side. The grim, bleak mask was back in place and despite the fact that her random cheerfulness drove him absolutely insane with worry, in this place reeking of death and doom - suddenly - it was Happy Merran he really wanted back.

-oo-

As Merran plodded glumly after the Senior Enchanter she reflected that as familiar as she was with the circular halls of the Tower of Magi, it was nice to have someone else lead for a change. Quite apart from the fact that Wynne was an excellent abomination detector, focusing on the elderly mage's beacon-bright orange robes was an effective distraction from the blood-spattered walls, mangled remains of things that used to be people and the pools of sticky gore. If she had to guess, she'd say the blood mages had been studiously working their way through their copies of _The Big Book of Demons, _without skimping on the messier, melting up through the floor, oozing-across-the-ceiling versions…or the leaping out of walls and yelling '_bleargh!_' types…and _then _there were the…"Ow…ow…ouch help! Wynne…!"

"Stay still, silly girl!"

"Put me out! Put me out! Put me out!" Merran hopped about, slapping at her burning robes with stinging hands. Wynne paused only briefly with a roll of her eyes, a disapproving cluck of her tongue and a well-aimed ice spell. The others had already moved on.

Miserably, Merran held up the pathetic remains of her pinwheel. It had been reduced to a single, singed stick with a greyish blob hanging off the end.

The _exploding _demons were the worst. Unlike the quicker-footed Leliana and Zevran, or the better armoured Sten and Alistair, Merran was too slow and too unprotected to avoid being set on fire. Constantly. Nor did it help that Alistair found her lack of incombustibility enormously hilarious.

"Practice makes perfect Warden Amell!" the Senior Enchanter would bark randomly at her but Merran didn't _want _to keep practicing. She just wanted to stop catching on fire. And now her pretty pinwheel was destroyed…

"Here."

A rather ugly wooden staff was thrust into her hands. "By all that's holy, child," the Senior Enchanter huffed sternly. "A proper mage should have a _proper_ staff."

"Except she's not a proper mage!" Alistair called back, his laughter echoing from the next room.

Curling her fingers around the staff, Merran sighed. She gave one, last lingering look at her pinwheel. No one had ever given her anything pretty before, but her spells had become increasingly unfocussed and wild. The pinwheel had to go…Letting it fall; Merran squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and promptly stepped on the head of a hippopotamus.

_Wait…_

"Oh…_B__ronto bum…_" Wynne's voice – and the mage herself - emerged from the orange fog, looking thoroughly peeved. "We appear to be trapped," the older mage commented, looking about the twisted landscape. _The Fade…_Merran blinked. _How did we…? _She thought the Veil might be thin here, but not _non-existent._

"This looks like the old temple at Ostagar," Wynne continued, pointing her staff towards a tall structure rising out of the mists. She turned to glare at Merran, "Though I suspect this may be _your __Fade _dream."

"Mine?" Merran blinked, barely remembering what anything had looked like in Ostagar that didn't have Daveth or Ser Jory's cold dead eyes staring accusingly at her. "Are you sure?"

"Quite certain," Wynne told her confidently. "Mine had a great deal more ale in it."

Their attention became arrested by a trio of figures emerging from the gloomy fog. Merran's eyes widened. She recognised _those. _

"Ah…" the painfully familiar figure spread his arms wide. "Welcome to Weisshaupt Fortress."

As they neared, Merran recognised Daveth and Ser Jory by the Warden Commander's side. Alive…well…untainted…and a bit see-through…

"Pull up a cheese wheel and park your bottom, why don't you," The shade of Daveth grinned at her. He attempted to rest a forearm on her shoulder; the gesture spoiled completely by his arm passing through her neck.

"Did you bring more of that smelly soap?" Gareth-who'd-been-Ser-Jory-only-a-minute-ago appeared on her left side. "We'll use it to toast your health with!"

"Wonderful is it not?" It seemed it was Duncan's turn to change into something else; this time into Ser Jory. "Defeating the Archdemon in a glorious game of badminton. The bards will sing of our deeds for centuries to come." The shades of the Grey Wardens and recruits pressed in close, circling Merran, causing her mind to spin dizzily. _But I saw Ser Jory die…Daveth shuddering in his death throes…the Joining potion burning in his veins…_And yet none of that had happened to her at all it seemed. It had happened to someone else. Or it had happened in a dream. Perhaps…the Blight _was _over…It would be wonderful to toast the death of the Archdemon with soap and to sit on…_cheese_…_cheese!_

_I'm not dead yet…_

The stench of sulphur and the rotting, diseased reek of darkspawn burned her nostrils…_I'm not dead yet…! _the dragon bellowed in her head. _And neither are you…_The Grey Warden spectres howled in pain as a conjured circle of flame scorched them back into Merran's memory. _Where you belong!_

"…Maker-cursed blighters…" Wynne reappeared, appearing even more annoyed than previously. "Tried to persuade me with Orlesian wine that time…" Her gaze fell upon the younger mage's pale countenance and her eyebrows drew downwards. "Dry your eyes, Warden," she told Merran ruthlessly. "The sooner we find the others and release them from this prison, the better. None of us can afford to stay too long in the Fade."

With that she marched off into the mist, leaving Merran to mop up her tears and choose – or not choose – to follow. Gripping her staff more tightly, Merran pressed her lips together in determination and stormed onward. _No one's going to wear _their _faces and get away with it…_

The first of their companions was easy enough to find, though not as easy to _see_, owing to the very large mountain of shoes surrounding her. With a grunt, Wynne sent a spike of lightning shooting into the centre of leather, silk and satin. Leliana popped out squealing, though her blue eyes widened in relief when she caught sight of her attackers.

"Oh, Mer-Mer!" she exclaimed excitedly. "I'm sooooo glad you're here. I've been having _such _a dilemma. All these shoes and absolutely _nothing _to wear! Now look at these pumps and tell me whether you think they're too conservative. Should I go for the platforms, or the silk slippers? Pink, blue or green? Oh my, decisions, decisions!"

"Oh for the love of…" Wynne grimaced. "You only have _one_ pair of feet to wear them on!" she snapped, adding; "and there's nothing wrong with a pair of well-made, serviceable boots. Preferably with hobnails in them. Now get out of that mess before I shake you!"

Leliana pouted. "I suppose it was too much to ask for, thinking this is where fashionable shoes go when they die…" Her outline shimmered and the image of Leliana began to dissolve, the redhead looking alarmed at the prospect of being parted so soon from so many fabulous shoes…then she was gone.

"Right then," Wynne clapped her hands in satisfaction. "That, I believe, is one to _me._ Would you care to take the next one?"

Merran nodded grimly, happy to accept the challenge. "_Certainly._"

Sten was easy_. _His natural cynicism had made him merely wait for their arrival, surrounded by the bantering ghosts of long-slain comrades. He snorted at the mages' approach, pushing impatiently at an offered bowl of something stew-like. "I was wondering how long it would take you to extract me from these fools," he grumbled. As soon as he finished speaking however, he too dissolved out of the Fade.

Merran turned to Wynne. "You know, I was hoping I could trade Sten for one of his cheerier companions…"

"Absolutely not!"

"Oh well…Thought I'd ask all the same."

Wynne waved her staff impatiently. "On to the next! Oh…" Her confident tone slipped slightly. "Dear _Maker…_"

"Ah…" a silky voice arose from a confection of golden silk and scantily clad…individuals. "You are just in time, my lovely mages…"

Wynne pursed her lips and planted a fist onto a hip. Eyeing in particular, _one_ of Zevran's 'attendants' with disfavour, she told him: "Young man, I do _not_ peel grapes! For anyone!"

"Are you sure?" Zevran patted the silk beside him invitingly. "There is plenty of room for more."

Shading her eyes, Wynne turned away. Seeing multiples of herself, Merran and Leliana dressed in little else but Zevran's imagination was unsettling to say the least. Then another thought occurred to her and she carefully covered Merran's eyes with her hand.

"Aw!" Merran protested. "But I was wondering how those teeny, tiny handkerchiefs _stuck…_" she complained.

"_Brasca!" _they heard Zevran swear before he too disappeared. Beside Wynne, Merran made a curious nose. Wynne turned to her, frowning in disapproval.

"Young lady, you are not-"

"Hm. Now _why_…was _Alistair_ in Zevran's Fade dream?" Merran cocked her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Then she gave a delicate shudder. "Urgh. That image is going to give me nightmares for months." _I'll never look at Alistair and a hanky in quite the same way ever again._

"Ah! There's your mabari," Wynne said suddenly, sending another bolt of lightning towards Cullen, sleeping curled up on the most enormous cushion Merran had ever seen; head resting on a bone that might have come from the leg of a High Dragon.

"Aw!" Merran protested again. "But Cullen should have been my turn!"

"No complaints!" Wynne set her chin stubbornly. "Besides, you know your fellow Warden best."

Grimacing, Merran had to agree, though she did not want to. _And anyway, where is that lazy, almost-Templar?_ Casting her gaze about, she caught just a hint of movement; a tiny shape ducking out of sight behind an upended vase filled with pink bread sticks. Hefting her staff, she narrowed her eyes, took aim and…the tiny mouse flew into the air, completed a single somersault then landed with a muffled thump and a startled squeak.

"Was that really necessary?" Wynne enquired, puzzled until Merran was seen to pluck a dishevelled rodent up by its scabby tail.

"I'm with the old one," the mouse squeaked, feet scrabbling mid-air. "Was that _really_ necessary?"

"Less of the 'old', if you don't mind," Wynne sniffed, offended. "And you can tell us where we can find a young man in Templar armour."

"Along with the demon causing these ridiculous dreams," Merran added.

"Oh, you'll want Sloth for that one," the mouse ratted all too quickly.

"Sloth?" Merran repeated. "Oh, wait. I know him. Bearlike; likes to climb trees…asks ridiculously easy riddles."

"Not the same Sloth that asked the map question?" Wynne asked, poking the mouse with the end of her staff. "I had that one at _my _Harrowing." Rolling her eyes, she added; "Do demons think we mages don't talk amongst ourselves or do they really think we're that stupid?"

"Oh yes!" the mouse replied, before it realised what it had just said. "I mean, of course that-"

"Just tell us where we can find the young man is all I'm…" The Senior Enchanter's voice trailed away when Merran placed her hand on the older mage's arm, her head cocked, listening. After a moment, the sound of childish laughter could be heard – faint at first – carried by the Fade breezes. Merran and Wynne exchanged a look of concern.

"This is going to be more traumatic than Zevran's not-so-strategically-placed handkerchiefs, isn't it?" Merran asked with trepidation.

Wynne looked down her nose at her. "And I am in no doubt you are up to the challenge," she nodded, to which Merran grimaced. _Wonderful. I should have known that's what she was going to say…_When they reached Alistair, he wasn't surrounded as Merran hoped, by laughing, merry cheese. They were…well, they were _children. _Normal ones from what both could see. Two arms, two legs, the right number of eyes, noses…there was just so _many _of them and they kept appearing, popping out of the scenery like jesters at a pantomime from a tiny carriage. And in the centre of the mass of giggling, wriggling children was Alistair; two tiny tots perched on each knee; one dark-haired the other with a bright head of red hair. He appeared to be reading them _The Adventures of Roland the Cat._

_Aw…I love that book…! _The end of a mage staff prodded her forward. Giving the Senior Enchanter a sour look, Merran shrugged. "He looks…happy, can't we just leave him and you know…fight the Blight without him?" she suggested hopefully. "I mean it's not like we need him for anything…"

"This is _not _right," Wynne insisted, her mouth screwing up into a pink prune. "You have to end this."

"Aw…_fine…_" Feet dragging, Merran approached the rose-covered cottage, carefully navigating the obstacle course of gambolling children, puppies, kittens and wooden toys. She stumbled, looked down, finding she'd just tripped over a trio of jolly pottery gnomes in Templar armour. One of them was relieving himself over a patch of petunias.

"Read it again, papa! Read it again!" Merran heard a piping voice demand.

"No, _I _wanna play with papa!" the same voice – only red-haired – argued back.

"You already played with papa!" the first countered. "It's _my_ turn!"

"Now, now children, do let your father…_ugh, _I can't take this anymore!" It was a Desire Demon…in a pink gingham apron with many frills and pockets. Slapping a hand to her forehead, she turned and glared at Merran. "And it's about time you showed up. These children are driving me batty! _Papa this and papa that…_good grief and as for _him…_" The last word was uttered with such loathing that Merran flinched. She followed the line of the demon's pointing finger to the very contented looking Alistair in the middle of the garden. "Can't make up his bloody mind. Honestly, 'perks of a demon'? Bloody lie is what it is! I didn't sign up for this kind of abuse. I have _rights _you know! Demons have limits too! Feelings! I have feelings!"

Merran shrunk back as the demon jabbed herself in her ample chest with every heartfelt utterance of the word 'feeling'; the demon's…assets jiggling rather life-threateningly at her. _This is so going to go on my list of Bizarre Things I Wish I Hadn't Seen in the Fade…_

"Merran _Amell_…" Wynne prodded warningly.

"Are you absolutely sure we can't just leave-"

"_Quite _sure!" Wynne insisted. "Do get on with it." It was at that point that Alistair happened to notice Merran standing nearby. He gave her a sort of half-beaming smile, half-worried grimace.

"Hullo sweetheart," he greeted her. "Is the pie ready yet? The children are threatening to eat each other, they're so hungry."

Merran turned, only to find the business end of Wynne's crackling mage staff directed towards her in an authoritative fashion. Stamping her foot, Merran spun back around. She took a deep, steadying breath. "Listen, you stup…_Templar_-head…" she began after a quick correction, only to be interrupted by the person she was attempting to assist.

"Oh and you'll be happy to know Teagan and Eamon will be around later," Alistair informed her cheerfully. "We're all going to have a foster father-son-sortofuncle picnic. Great, huh?"

Merran lifted her eyes skywards, even if in the Fade up, down, ground and sky were only loose terms and not particularly connected with each other. She cast her gaze about Alistair's Fade garden, looking for ways to break him out of it. _Ah ha! _Bending down, she cupped his chin and forced him to look towards the cottage; at the Demon tapping her foot impatiently on the garden path. "Look at that," Merran ordered him, "and tell me what you see."

Alistair gave her a _look. _"You're being ridiculous…ow!" Rubbing the top of his head where she'd smacked him with the heel of her hand, he scowled. "Fine. _Fine._" Putting a bit of distance between them, he looked again. He squinted, eyes sliding back towards the raggedy mage in front of him, then back to…"Well it's Leliana…no, it's…um…" He blinked rapidly, his mouth forming an 'O' as the little gears in his head clicked into place. "Oh dear," he murmured. "There appears to be two of you…"

"See what I mean?" the demon complained with a wave of an annoyed hand. "Can't make up his mind! Do you know how exhausting that is?"

"Um…" Alistair began, embarrassment colouring his voice, even as his cheeks burned scarlet. "You know, I'd really, _really_ appreciate you not telling Leliana this so…wait. You appear to be disappearing now. This is some kind of cruel jest isn't…" Thankfully for Merran's nerves, Alistair, his two 'wives', and all his children vanished. Straightening, Merran dusted off her hands. Swinging her staff off her back, she rammed the end into the ground and mirroring the Senior Enchanter, perched a fist on her hip.

"I think," Merran stated, lifting her chin, "it's about time we met this Sloth demon and got to the bottom of this."

There was no answer from the Senior Enchanter. Merran turned slowly, to be met with empty air and a brown, confused landscape stretching infinitely into the distance. Unless Wynne had turned into a tree or an umbrella stand in the shape of a humorous Bronto foot, the elder mage had returned to the real world. Merran's foot began to tap an impatient staccato. After a while she pursed her lips.

"All right then," she called out to no one in particular. "Let's make a deal shall we? If you send me back and _promise _not to suck the life force out of any more people, I'll let you live."

Silence met this proposal. The foot tapping increased in volume. "And if you keep pretending you're not there, I'm just going to kill you anyway."

There was a faint rustle from the tree. Then…"If it's all the same to you," a tremulous voice called down. "I think I'll stay up in this tree just a wee bit longer."

"Really?" Merran glared at the base of the tree.

"Oh yes," the voice replied. "The view from up here is quite remarkable. But…in case you are wondering…I promise and everything…no life force-sucking from me. I am from this point forward, a reformed creature of the Fade. Demon's honour."

"Do demons have honour?" Merran enquired with a lift of an eyebrow.

"They do now," the demon replied quite firmly.

"That'll have to do I guess."

"Much appreciated. Much appreciated." _Pause. _"You're not going," the demon observed nervously. "Why aren't you going?"

Merran smiled sweetly at the quivering Sloth Demon curled around the top-most branch. "Oh…just one more thing," she began. "Only a _little _thing…This Uldred person…What can you tell me about him?"

-oo-


	18. Mage Treat y

-oo-

**Chapter 18 – Mage Treat**

The Wardens and their companions wound silently down the stone staircase of Kinloch Hall, too exhausted to think, much less speak. In the lead were the mages; First Enchanter Irving flanked by Senior Enchanter Wynne and Merran. From time to time, Merran would sneak a glance at the man who'd stood as a father figure to her most of her life. She hadn't been _that _long from the Tower and yet Irving appeared older, thinner and greyer than she remembered. On the other hand, the physical and mental torture he'd suffered at the hands of Uldred and his followers she could only ever guess at. Only the intensity of his eyes remained undiminished by time or his ordeal.

Behind the mages came Zevran and Leliana, their footfalls light, each contemplating their respective Fade dreams. Zevran in particular was busy with future plans. Disappointed his companions did not believe his Fade Dream could be translated into a successful business venture, he was determined nonetheless to persuade them.

Next in line was the ever watchful Cullen and her faithful Sten. Second last from the rear plodded Alistair; a heavy, squirming sack thrown over one shoulder. Under the layers of blood, gore and grime, his expression was grim but nevertheless impatient to reach the lower levels. The stench emanating from his burden was making him queasy. He knew well how dangerous the waters around the mage tower were, but right now, he did not care. Six-headed, poisonous octopoids notwithstanding; the first chance he had, he would plunge feet-first into the icy lake to wash the foul odour away. He never thought it possible that anything in Thedas could smell worse than darkspawn. Clearly, he was wrong.

A popping noise from the sack made him flinch. It was followed by a horrible wet plop as the sack oozed fetid slime onto the stone floor. Alistair glanced over his shoulder at the Templar stumbling behind him. The hollow-eyed young man slipped on the trail of ooze, but did not seem to notice, too submerged in his own sea of misery and resentment. Alistair swallowed convulsively and turned away, his eyes automatically falling on Merran's narrow shoulders. The perfect, reddened imprint of Merran's right hand had as yet to fade from the young Templar's cheek.

_May the Maker forgive you…_the Templar had growled at them from the blood mage-constructed prison. _I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all…_

That was when Merran had struck him. _And may the Maker forgive you for condemning innocents to their deaths! _she had screamed at the caged Templar with such fury that Alistair had expected her to burst into flame. They had survived entrapment by a Sloth demon, faced abominations and possessed Templars and things so twisted by evil they no longer resembled anything living. They were exhausted, bloodied and Uldred's lair was so close that it felt as though the young Templar had been left there as one last, soul-crushing obstacle to their final goal.

The Senior Enchanter had been sympathetic but dismissive of Ser Cullen. The others had simply wanted to move on. Merran on the other hand…Alistair had recognised the magical barrier. It had been the same one Wynne had used to prevent abominations and monsters from entering the tiny alcove where the surviving Apprentices had taken shelter. It was impenetrable. Yet Merran had somehow been able to reach in all the same; so quickly that no one guessed what she was about to do until the sound of Merran's palm connecting with the Templar's jaw stung the air.

But…Alistair could not blame her. Even if Ser Cullen hadn't tried to convince them to hunt down and kill every last mage in the tower, the things he had said about Merran would have been enough to…_Even __I __was embarrassed to hear them and it had nothing to do with me…__T_hey didn't teach that kind of talk back at the monastery. Old Mother Beatrice would have been appalled, as had he. All the boys in Templar training were taught to behave around young ladies; to be gentleman.

Ser Cullen had been anything but_ gentlemanly._

A sound from behind made Alistair jerk out of his musings back to the subject of his thoughts. Eyes fixed to the ground, Ser Cullen mouthed something unintelligible but clearly dark. Pretending to adjust the sack more comfortably on his shoulder, Alistair hung back a little, bringing him within better hearing distance of the muttering Templar, but all he heard was a string of names. Dead Templars? Friends of his? Whatever they were, Alistair did not trust Ser Cullen's expression nor the way he directed that dark look towards Merran. It made Alistair calculate how much stopping power a sack full of exploding putrescence had on a berserking Templar…

For his part Ser Cullen preferred to remain firmly at the back of the group, as far from the mages as possible. The individual who dogged his steps smelled like a Char House. Though he wore Templar uniform Cullen suspected it had been stolen and clearly was under the influence of the mages…as were the others…the woman who spoke of the Maker as though He were a close friend of hers…the elf who wore armour, not servant's garb…and the giant who clearly was not Fereldan. Ser Cullen's hand twitched towards his scabbard; empty air reminding him that his sword had long gone, lost in his fight against the blood mages. But the first chance he got…

It was a relief when the group passed the Apprentices' level, reaching the sealed barrier doors at long last. On the other side would be the Knight Commander and hopefully, saner people than the current crowd…

When the First Enchanter raised his hands, running fingers along the metal of the doors, Alistair experienced an odd sense of _déjà vu_. But no…_no…_he thought. This was _The First Enchanter. _The senior-most mage in the country. The man oozed gravitas and solemnity as much as the horrible bit of sacking oozed stinking muck at his back. _He wouldn't_…! And so Irving bending an ear to the doors and giving the metal two smart raps with his bony knuckles made Alistair's jaw drop.

"Ah…" the First Enchanter began in his gravelly voice, "Knock, knock!"

At first there was no response, then…"Um…who's there?"

"Arch!" Irving announced, beaming.

"Oh, not this again!" the voice on the other voiced Alistair's own thoughts. "Don't you Grey Wardens have anything better to do?"

The First Enchanter chuckled, straightening. "I've always wanted to do that one," he told them all, while Alistair buried his face in a grubby hand. "I was going to say 'Archdemon' as my punch line. I was looking forward to that." Irving pointed to the door with a shrug. "Templars," he snorted. "Not known for their humour are they?"

"I resent that comment!" Ser Cullen growled from the back of the group.

Irving made calming motions with his hands. "Now, now Ser Cullen," the elderly mage said soothingly. "In a moment you will be with your Knight Commander." _And not a moment too soon, _Alistair grimaced.

"And what…" Ser Cullen stepped forward – to a warning growl from mabari-Cullen – "is meant by that? What have you done with the Knight Commander?"

The First Enchanter viewed the young Templar with complete calm. "Nothing I imagine, as Greagoir has been safe beyond these doors these past…well who knows how long?" With a quirk of his mouth, he passed a hand over the seam of the doors once more. The metal hummed softly, glowing white-blue. Whirring noises could be heard within the doors itself then a soft click and they swung open, revealing the Knight Commander himself and a number of Templars, their swords drawn and at the ready.

Irving eyed the point of Knight Commander Greagoir's broadsword with a humorous eye. "I'll wager I could stand here longer than you could hold that sword, Greagoir," he commented; the Knight Commander's eyes narrowing in response. The senior Templar lowered his sword but did not sheathe it.

Irving sighed heavily. "Uldred has been defeated," he informed the Templars. "This Tower is no longer under the control of the blood mages. The danger has passed."

With a snort, Greagoir perused the battle-weary individuals standing behind the First Enchanter. His first impulse was not to believe the man that posed as Irving; to assume a Shade disguised as his Circle counterpart stood in his place. But then his gaze fell upon Merran Amell and he _knew _it was Irving. If a demon had wanted to trick him into a false sense of security, it would have sent him a more persuasive vision. One that did _not _involve this particular mage…

"I never thought I would say this Irving," Greagoir snorted. "But by the Maker I am glad to see you."

Irving chuckled. "Wonders will never cease Greagoir," he bounced on the balls of his feet. "No doubt we will be at each other's throats in no time." A fizzing pop punctuated the end of this sentence. Irving turned, gesturing the sack-carrying Warden forward. "Ah…but first, Greagoir…there is the small matter of…"

Swinging the sack off his shoulder, Alistair presented it to the Knight Commander; the stench causing the old Templar to reel backwards, clapping a gauntleted hand over his nose.

"I'd be a bit cautious of the red lizardy ones," Alistair warned. "They explode."

Greagoir viewed the sack with even more revulsion, refusing to claim it. And then it began _dripping _on his feet; the foul, putrescent liquid steaming onto his boot caps and turning the metal brown. "What in the _Maker's _name Irving…?"

"We think…" the First Enchanter began wryly, "that the small green one that keeps biting the others is…um…_Uldred._"

"_What_!"

If it was possible, Greagoir looked even more appalled. "What the Fade is that supposed to mean?" he demanded to find Irving's little pet supplying the answer.

"I couldn't read the _Litany of Adralla_!" Merran whined, hands twisting nervously. At a snort from the Senior Enchanter, she added; "Well I couldn't! It's all and well handing me the parchment saying 'here, recite this whenever Uldred starts mind control blood magicking'. No one told me it would be written in _Tevinter_. I don't know Tevinter!"

"You should have said something, Merran," Wynne snapped, rolling her eyes at the younger mage. "And if you've spent a lifetime in this Tower without learning a smidgeon of the one of the most common magical languages, I truly worry at what else you've failed to learn!"

Merran pouted, folding her arms defiantly. "Frogs can't do blood magic," she sniffed defensively. "Anyway…and they're cuter. Just…" She made a face at the sack. "They keep trying to possess each other is all. Um." She made a face. "They're frogs, by the way…and a couple of lizards. Thought I'd do something a bit different for a…um. Who would have thought it, eh?"

"And what am _I_ supposed to do with this collection of…abominated amphibia?" Greagoir demanded, completely out of patience.

"And reptilia as well," Irving reminded good naturedly. "And I'm quite sure you'll think of something Greagoir," Irving said. "As long as the contents of this sack do not end up in the Tower's kitchens, I'm sure they'll remain as they are; quite harmless."

Greagoir lifted his chin. _What did the sneaky old coot imply by that? _

"Though I have to admit," Irving continued in the same, sedate tone of voice, "that a hot meal and a good strong cup of tea would be most welcome about now." Placing a hand each on the shoulders of his accompanying mages, he looked down the length of his prominent nose, eyes twinkling. "I do hope Uldred's minions left the kitchens alone," he murmured. "Though I'm afraid to say the Harrowing Chambers are _quite _a mess.

"And ah…we found Ser Cullen for you," Irving added. "I am informed of the Templars present in the upper levels, only Ser Cullen survived."

The Knight Commander touched his hand to his forehead, regarding the young Templar with relief. "I had not expected any of my men to return Irving," he sighed. Raising his voice slightly, he addressed the grimy Ser Cullen. "The Maker has indeed smiled upon you lad."

"Oh and there's a mage hiding in one of the wardrobes," Merran piped up. "So there may be more." Blinking owlishly at the senior-most representatives of the Circle and Chantry, she added. "Just…well you never know, is all. Might find a Templar or two under a bed."

"The Knight Commander will – I am sure - perform a comprehensive sweep of the Tower," Irving said, to diffuse the Greagoir bomb before young Merran could light the fuse properly. "And…We will honour the agreement between the Circle and the Grey Wardens," he assured her. "When the time comes, the mages will be there to fight the Blight."

"Are you mad, Irving?" Greagoir's eyes bulged in disbelief. "What of the Tower?" he demanded. "The mess these blood mages left behind!"

"There may be few of us left in this Tower," Irving told him in a voice that clearly stated he would not be dissuaded from this decision. "But we _will_ fight. Our country faces far worse from the Blight than mere Blood Mages. Although…" It appeared the First Enchanter had reached the end of his current store of energy. With a shaking hand, he reached out once more, steadying himself on Merran. "I think before I or anyone else goes haring off to save the world a nice, hot cup of tea and some fresh air would be most welcome. Cleaning up," he directed a cool look at the Knight Commander, "can wait. For now."

Straightening, the First Enchanter clasped his hands behind his back and began shuffling towards the Tower exit; Merran and her companions following in his wake like baby chicks after their mother.

-oo-

The rain foiled the First Enchanter's plans. So heavy and deafening was the downpour that it made it difficult to hear. Despite the refreshing chill of the outdoors, Irving had to concede defeat – and damp – and the party retired to the kitchens. As hoped, the Tower's lower domestic floor had remained relatively untouched; a blazing fire kept in the fireplace. The kitchen staff for the most part had remained invisible to the blood mages and abominations in the higher levels and had been quite content to remain so until told otherwise, though at the sight of the First Enchanter, Mrs Murtlock had her under-servants scurrying to bring plates, utensils and the _special _tin of plum cake.

While the others settled in for some much needed refreshment, Alistair caught the eye of one of the elven maids, negotiating successfully for a basin of hot water and a cleaning cloth. She was a pretty thing; big blue eyes and long blond braids wound into neat knots at the nape of her slender neck. The two of them chatted; Alistair finding it quite a relief to speak to someone for a change who wasn't trying to kill him, inhabit him, eat him or shout at him for doing something like breathing or looking slightly cross-eyed at them. Anticipating getting rid of some of the stench of abomination out of his best chainmail, he farewelled the maid with a happy wave and a smile. He turned; to find Merran busying herself rather suspiciously at a nearby table. She was rolling up her sleeves and tucking her wayward hair behind her ears, preparing for some important task. As there was little else to do except wait for the servant to return and with no one else close enough to make it seem like a casual approach, he walked the few steps to her table.

"I know I shouldn't ask," he began cautiously, watching her wrestle a large bowl and a wooden spoon from a shelf. "But…what are you doing?"

"I have to talk to the First Enchanter about Jowan," she explained in a quiet voice, wrapping her arms about the bowl. "And I'm nervous about it. When I'm nervous, I bake." Indicating the sack of flour, knob of butter and a bowl of currants already on the table, she wiggled her eyebrows. "Mage treats," she told him. "My specialty."

"Really?" Alistair raised his. "But he's a…" Biting back _but Jowan's a Grey Warden…_he hastily rearranged his thoughts. Jowan was a _conscript _yes, but he hadn't actually undergone the Joining yet. When that was likely to happen he had no idea. The only Wardens that knew how to prepare the darkspawn blood for the ceremony had died at Ostagar. While Duncan had mentioned that the Circle had assisted in preparing the blood, Alistair had no idea to what extent that assistance had been. He supposed he could ask the First Enchanter, but how much had Duncan revealed to Irving in the first place? Until he could work that out, it was probably best _not _to mention Jowan – or the Joining - at all.

While pondering this knotty question, the maid returned with a steaming basin of sweet-smelling water and a fluffy white flannel folded over her shoulder. Merran watched her fellow Grey Warden accept his wash things with another smile, noting with a roll of her eye the deep flush on the maid's cheeks as everything was handed over. After a while of extended ogling, Merran cleared her throat. "Thank you Delanna," she murmured, eyeing Alistair with a frown. "You're a treasure." She then turned to Alistair. "Could you move your wash basin elsewhere?" she requested, slapping his hand as he reached for a currant. "Helloo? I don't want you splashing unhygienic blood mage froggy goo on my currant drops."

"Oh, _well_…" Leliana appeared as though out of thin air, standing so close to Alistair her breath tickled the fine hairs along the base of his ear. The Warden jumped, finding himself neatly sandwiched between Merran's table and the redhead. He was trapped.

"Our nearly-Templar is a handsome fellow is he not?" Leliana cooed. "Even covered in grime and the dirt of battle, he is so appealing to others who are willing to look." She indicated the still-staring young elven maid, who noticing herself the object of attention, turned and fled. "She is a pretty thing, no?" Leliana added.

Alistair frowned. Was there a point to that statement? He tried squirming sideways, but Leliana was _there _again, hemming him in.

"Perhaps it is a warrior thing," Leliana continued to tease, attacking Alistair's other ear. "King Maric had quite the reputation with his allies so I hear. And we all know how well-regarded King Cailan was amongst the more feminine of his followers, especially when wearing his ceremonial armour…Or else it is the Theirin bloodline. Women throw themselves at their feet…"

_Well, they don't throw themselves at _my _feet…_Alistair thought sourly, covering his ears with his hands. When Leliana moved in again, he seized the flannel and wrapped it tightly about his head. Despite the layers of cloth he could still hear her purring: "We had better watch our little Templar-Warden…"

"Is there a _point _to this?" Alistair demanded finally, but Leliana had shifted her attention to Merran, who hadn't been listening in any case. She was too busy kneading a ball of dough.

"The elf is interested…" Leliana continued, watching Merran carefully. To the redhead's surprise, Merran did not look at Alistair but at Zevran – who'd successfully caught Alistair's elven maid and was causing the young girl to blush even harder than even Alistair had – her eyebrows drawn low speculatively.

"Well…" Merran began thoughtfully. "You do look at Zevran rather a lot."

"Wait? What?" Alistair spluttered. "Since when have I…?"

"That is not quite what I meant…" Leliana said at the same time, confused as to why Merran had mentioned the assassin at all.

"All the time," Merran stated, cocking her head at Zevran and unable to hear Leliana over Alistair's loud, stuttering protestations. The assassin _was_ rather comely…with his perfectly-kept wheaten hair and the elegantly sculptured planes of his handsome face. There would be much to attract a person like Alistair to the assassin she thought. Zevran was well-travelled for instance. Alistair was not. Zevran was entertaining, charming. Alistair was about as interesting as a lump of rock. And…now that Leliana had made it clear her interests lay with the dashing Bann of Rainesfere. Alistair was – technically – on the rebound. While he _said _he didn't trust Zevran, perhaps it was all a cover to hide his true feelings?

She looked back at her fellow Grey Warden. He was quite red-faced, spluttering half-denials and attempting to squeeze past Leliana without touching her. Her scrutiny intensified then; "Golly…!" He really was protesting too much. _Trying to cover up? Definitely! _And he was specifically trying _not _to look at Zevran now. That in itself was pretty fishy. "Alistair and Zevran…" she breathed. _It's like bookends! __Alistair Arainai…_Clearly_, _Merran surmised, this was meant to be. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps it was the strain of the past few days, but Merran found herself profoundly moved by the realisation that Alistair and Zevran made such a nice couple; the two of them skipping hand in hand through a field of daisies in her head. She didn't even realise tears were flowing down her cheeks until a handkerchief appeared in front of her eyes, Leliana at the end of it…and a handkerchief was the _last _thing she wanted to see right now.

Zevran's scantily-clad-Alistair Fade Dream rudely invaded her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes closed, shuddering at the unwanted image. _Ugh…I really didn't need to relive that again…_.But now it all made so much sense! Alistair appearing in that scrap of cloth in Zevran's dream…

_My Mer-Mer is upset…_Roughly shouldering Alistair out of the way, Leliana embraced Merran, shooting Alistair an accusatory glare. She had only meant to point out - gently - that if Merran did not move soon, Alistair might turn his gaze elsewhere. It was quite clear to her that something special had begun to form between the two Wardens. It was Alistair to whom Merran turned to after all; to whom she confided. She had caught Merran looking at Alistair very intently and now…the thought of her fellow Warden being with Zevran was clearly upsetting…Could Alistair not see how insensitive he was being? First flirting with the elven maid and now…_Zevran? _The thought made her want to stab Alistair with a fork. A blunt one.

Merran had already returned to her dough, tearing it apart and forming little balls. After a few had been pressed into shape she uttered: "Cookies!" then continued to work. Her little shout attracted the notice of the qunari. Formerly skulking in the quietest corner of the kitchen with the mabari asleep at his feet, his ears pricked up. From watching the whiny human watch the elf assassin who watched the small elf who watched the giggling redhead emerged the only thing that mattered…_cookies._

Elsewhere, the First Enchanter Irving sipped appreciatively at the first cup of good tea he'd had since the meeting with Uldred, Senior Enchanter Wynne eyeing the slices of lemon on his saucer with a dubious eye.

Wynne sighed, her attention too caught by the goings on at the dough-making table. "Truth be told," she continued their conversation, "the thought of Merran Amell…unleashed upon the rest of the world strikes terror into my very soul. I know her intentions are born out of a sincere need to help people…_However_, her methods for achieving these noble aims are…unusual to say the least."

Irving too watched the exchange between Amell and her companions. "I have noticed a rather marked direction in her magic towards transfiguration" he stated. "I did wonder how much of that would be coincidence." He turned his attention back to the Senior Enchanter. "But admit it Wynne. You were never one to say wrapped up in blankets with all the comforts of home when there was adventuring to be done."

A half-smile began to form itself at the edge of the Senior Enchanter's mouth. "Perhaps that as well, Irving…"

Irving chuckled to himself, unable to suppress a wave of smug satisfaction. While he recognised that mages were needed to help restore the Tower back to the way it had been, the thought of Senior Enchanter Wynne hanging about while he was trying to do so, nagging him about bloodied tapestries, the stench of rotting Templar in the library and how many blobs of abominable flesh needed to be cleaned out of the Alchemy workrooms made him shudder. He liked the woman, make no mistake, but he also liked peace and quiet; something he'd enjoyed immensely when Wynne had been as Ostagar.

It had been quite…liberating…being able to sit about in his sleep robes till after noon…eating cake for breakfast, filling his office with pipe smoke to his heart's content…_sheer bliss…_The only concern he had was the effect the Senior Enchanter's rather…stern presence might have on young Jowan. Of _course _he knew about that. Jowan might have escaped the Tower, but it was easy enough to link the last known sighting of the blood mage with the reports he'd heard of the Grey Wardens at Redcliffe and draw some very interesting conclusions.

Taking a few thoughtful sips at his tea, he came to the decision that allowing Jowan to continue in Merran's company would be a good thing. Jowan would make sure that Merran didn't get herself into too much trouble…and in turn Merran would ensure Jowan practised no more blood magic. Better yet, pitting them both against the Senior Enchanter would keep the old hag – _ahem I mean, one of my most trusted and loved members of staff – _busy.

While the Grey Wardens continued to argue over the biscuit dough and the First Enchanter pondered his upcoming holiday, the doors to the kitchen opened, admitting three Templars. With interest, Irving noted Ser Cullen was one of the group; the only one still wearing his plate armour. On entry, one of them intercepted Mrs Murtlock who nodded a polite '_I'll see what I can do…_' before disappearing into the pantry. The Templars then seated themselves – pointedly – as far from the Wardens' group as possible.

Merran caught sight of Ser Cullen too, having just handed her tray of currant drops to Delanna for the oven. She pursed her lips, debating whether she should speak to Ser Cullen. She felt bad about the incident outside the Harrowing Chamber. Would it hurt to go over there and talk to him? Apologise for striking him? It had been an impulsive act…seeing him unexpectedly; being so grateful that he was still alive…then hearing all those things about her; things she hadn't known he'd felt and wishing she wouldn't say.

_Alistair was right…Templars and Mages are a bad idea…_But she couldn't leave it like this. She _had _to say _something_.

Her feet moved on their own, taking her towards the trio. Fingers knitting together nervously, she began…"Um, Ser Cullen…I wanted to say…"

"Stay away from me _fiend!_"

Ser Cullen moved so fast, Merran's braids were whipped backwards. He lunged at her, hands reaching for her neck. Only the two Templars seated on either side of him prevented him from actually touching her. Struggling, his breath heaving in his chest, Ser Cullen spat a gob of saliva onto Merran's tunic. "They're monsters!" Ser Cullen bellowed at his human restraints. "They're all monsters!"

"Who just saved your sorry arse!"

Another wall of metal stepped in between Merran and the raging Templar. Seizing the front of Ser Cullen's armour, Alistair growled; "_Yeah_, a _mage _saved your ungrateful _arse…_you pathetic, bloody…!"

"_That's quite enough, Warden_."

Irving stepped up to the head of the table. His attention was not on Ser Cullen but on the two other Templars; his expression unreadable. "Whose idea was it to bring him here?" he enquired, his voice deceptively cool. As there was no answer from either of the two men, only a sudden interest in the patina of the table between them, Irving replied in even chillier tones: "I _see._"

Rescue came in the unexpected form of the Tower's Head Cook. Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs Murtlock perched her fists onto her ample hips, glaring at both parties. "I'll have no fighting in my kitchens!" she stated firmly. "My staff and I are respectable folk." She directed a stern look towards Alistair. "Not brawling thugs."

Alistair took the hint, tearing his hands from Ser Cullen as though contact with the Templar burned him suddenly. After a few moments more the two still-unspeaking Templars managed to tug Ser Cullen into leaving the table…and the kitchen.

Irving watched them leave, rubbing at his temples after the door had closed behind them. Turning back into the room, he saw all the Grey Wardens' companions returning their weapons to their sheaths and he raised his eyebrows. It was just as well the Templars had left then…An incident between the Grey Wardens and the Chantry would not have ended well. Resolving to speak to the Knight Commander about his Templars later, he began his way back to the Senior Enchanter when he noticed one of the Grey Warden party was missing.

Merran had gone.

-oo-


	19. Hunter Fell

-oo-

**Chapter 19 – Hunter's Fell**

_This is possibly…not something I should have done…_Merran thought, foot slipping on the rain-slick rocks yet again. _Or maybe prepared a little better…_The waters of Lake Calenhad crashed darkly against the shore, soaking her sideways. Not that it mattered much. She was already soaked. Even if the lake was smooth as glass, the storm would have made a good dunking by lake water a bit of a moot point. Honestly, it _had_ seemed like good idea at the time; showing Ser Cullen that mages _could _be good and noble and selfless and of worth. That not all mages succumbed to the lure of demons from the Fade.

She just hadn't counted on the weather being so uncooperative!

A wave as tall as her shoulder crashed into her, sending her sliding down the jagged rocks. Wincing, she scrambled upright, only to find herself unexpectedly surrounded by water. The ground disappeared; her flailing arms finding only freezing water and weed...before floating up on a hastily conjured ice block. She lay for a moment breathless and shivering_…_until another wave washed her back into the lake.

Clawing onto her second ice float, Merran waited for the next wave to send her sinking back into the dark waters, but only the rain and the frigid wind continued to harass her. Her fingers were numb and she'd forgotten what her feet should feel like but she was determined to reach the other side; Ser Cullen's face and his words lending strength to that determination. _What had they done to you?_ What could have sucked all the goodness; all the sweetness out of such a man, leaving nothing but paranoia, bitterness and anger? Or…had all of those emotions been simmering below the surface of that freckled countenance all along, simply waiting to be unleashed? Ser Cullen had not been at the Tower for very long. He was one of the newish Templars…and one of the nicest.

He had been her friend.

_Well…I'll show him! _That is, if she could live long enough to survive the trip across Lake Calenhad in a howling storm with nothing between herself and drowning than a small sheet of ice a hand-span thick.

It was difficult going. Not only did her limbs want to hibernate; shut down, stop working. Her mind was beginning to slow; tendrils of sleep tugging insistently at the edges of her mind. While she could appreciate her body being too numb to feel the cold, she knew she needed to keep awake and at least minimally alert to keep casting her iceberg spells. But…as time passed it became increasingly difficult to do so and the effort…the effort was just too much…When another wave washed her off her ice block, the blackness of lake water that swallowed her was almost a relief. The air in her lungs deserted her, but she did not seem to care. She was floating in the dark; weightless, soundless, carefree…_Is this what it feels like, dying? I just stop feeling everything? Just like that?_

Just as abruptly the storm was roaring in her ears and her throat stinging with frigid air. She couldn't open her eyes, feeling only pressure around her body and a faint, vague tingling. Then she was falling again; pain coursed through her, then nothing…until the sound of an irritated voice berating her…the _last_ voice she wanted to hear…

"Are you out of your insane, twisted, mage mind!?" The rest of Alistair's voice was carried away by the wind; Merran finding herself slipping once more into the darkness…

-oo-

The waves of Lake Calenhad continued to batter them as Alistair attempted to lift them both clear of the icy water. Rain whipped at his back and obscured his sight, hindering his efforts to steer them to safer ground and he was cold...oh so _cold, _having left his armour back at the Tower. He'd had to. Swimming across Lake Calenhad in plate armour? Madness!

Through the wall of cold grey he could make out a geometric shape in the distance…a building? Muscles protesting at the effort required to move, he half-dragged Merran's limp form towards the shadowy shape. It turned out – to his relief – to be exactly what he hoped it would be; some kind of boathouse. And it was unlocked. He practically fell through the door, fighting for control of his shaking limbs, managing to kick the door closed. The sound of the storm suddenly and thankfully muted to a slightly less deafening roar. Too dark for exploration, he looked around nevertheless, hoping to spy – by lightning flash – some kind of fireplace or blanket, though he kept his expectations low. Finding a well-stocked fireplace, tinder and flint would have been too easy. No, for him possibly a bear attack or a freak wave washing them back into Lake Calenhad or…

_If I don't hurry, that Mabari and Leliana are going to sprout wings, fly over here and turn my intestines into bow strings or puppy food…_And if Merran died now, he reminded himself, he wouldn't ever get a chance to feed his fellow Warden to the Archdemon _personally_.

Alistair was Ferelden born and raised; used to the cold winters of this country, and he had swum Lake Calenhad many times as a boy though generally, he hadn't done it when it was _this_ cold. Fighting the wind, the rain and the freezing cold had been difficult enough. Keeping Merran in sight had been even more so, especially when her icebergs would loom out of the darkness and knock him off course. Giving his head a brisk shake against the pull of fatigue and cold, Alistair raised himself onto his hands and knees. His hands were so cold he couldn't feel a pulse in Merran's skinny neck even if he tried. For that matter he couldn't feel one in his either, but he knew he needed to keep the both of them warm. Somehow.

Teeth chattering until his jaw ached; Alistair was now so numb he could no longer detect Merran physically. If not for the pull in the Taint…Groping in the darkness he fell back down to the ground. He moved his arm…a leg…hoping it fell over her though if he was this frozen, his confidence in being able to keep them both warm failed him. And the darkness of sleep threatened to overwhelm. If he rested now…just for a little bit, he could get up later…_yes. That would be a good idea…_No longer able to resist the lure of sleep, his eyes closed. He'd help Merran…later…Later was always good. Lulled by tiredness and the creaking timbers of the boathouse, he didn't notice his mind slowly going dark as cold and exhaustion sunk him deep into unconsciousness.

-oo-

The Archdemon was roasting her; turning her slowly over a blazing spit while its hooting, jeering minions danced the Darkspawn Dinner Dance around the flames. To the side, queues of darkspawn in colourful bibs waited for their serve of baked potato and stew, a large ogre-sized vat of lemon syllabub taking pride of place at the Archdemon's clawed feet while leather-apron-clad Hurlocks tapped barrels of tasty ale brewed from genuine Grey Warden blood…

Despite the heat of the spit, something cold and wet burrowed into the back of her neck. The darkspawn vanished, replaced by the half-dark; their raucous grunting turning into a simple howl of the wind. Merran frowned as sleep gave way to wakefulness. "_Dammit, Cullen…" she murmured, blinking the sleep crust from her eyes. "How many times have I told you: you're quite welcome on my bedroll as long as you__…__urk_."

The tufty brown hair peeking over her shoulder might be the same colour as the mabari's coat, but it did not belong to her. Nor did it smell of wet dog either, but it did _smell _of lake water, rotting weed and sweat. _Urgh…disgusting…_She tried to rise, finding one of Alistair's legs pinning her to the ground; one of his arms curled tightly across her chest. Her struggling only made him snuggle in closer; shivering, even though he felt like a furnace.

Working a hand free, she jabbed a finger into his arm. "Alistair," she angled her head away when he moaned unhappily, squeezing her more tightly against him. "Can you hear me? If you can, this is-"

"Leliana…" he whined pitifully. "M'cold…keep me warm…"

"What?" she demanded. "Back to Leliana again? What happened to your thing for Zevran?" _Good grief! _"Can't you make up your mind for more than half a day? Honestly!"

The only response Merran received was a damp, hacking cough into her shoulder; his entire body shaking with the effort. _Yuck. And I thought his drippy nose was disgusting…_After the bout of painful-sounding hacking ceased, Merran cautiously peeked back over her shoulder. She didn't need to be an expert to know Alistair was running a fever, trying to recall from her store of healing spells anything that might help with that. He still felt damp…well both of them were though if she stayed here long enough the radiant heat coming off him would dry her off completely. On the other hand, his great big lump of a leg was cutting off the circulation to the lower half and he was…stinky.

Merran concentrated. No healing spells came to mind, but there was a spell of repulsion that did. All she needed was just a _little_ bit of a nudge…just the tiniest push to…

_CRACKKK!_ The sound from Alistair's heavy bulk impacting the side of the boatshed with great force caused a shelf to collapse on top of him. He opened his eyes blearily. Half-pushing himself up on his arms he mumbled a confused, "What the…?" before a small iron pot landed on his head with a bony thunk and his entire body went slack.

"Oh…" Merran sat up and reviewed her handiwork. "...dear." She stared hard at him, watching for movement, just in case he was faking. She sighed. _Well now…on top of a fever, I have to__ remember how to treat concussion…wonderful._

Rising, Merran conjured a ball of flame around her hand as she inspected their surroundings. A narrow, cracked window gave view to the outside world. It was still raining though it was nothing like the great, stormy sheets of water from the night before, the dark clouds making it look as though day had as yet to arrive. Turning back she extended her hand, illuminating a dirt floor, the remains of a cot, a small pile of cooking utensils and a food safe. She doubted there would be anything edible stored in the latter. If the layer of dust was any indication, it had been quite a while since anyone had been here.

It was lucky Senior Enchanter Wynne was not witness to the use that Merran put her magic to over the next few hours. Being the sort who took Apprentices to task over toasting sandwiches after curfew or using Entropy spells instead of a broom for cleanup duty, a stern and incredibly boring lecture about the proper use and care of magic would have ensued. _But, _being able to tuck the now clean blankets about Alistair's snoring form while she baked mushrooms over a suspended ball of flame was proof how magic _could _be used for _practical _purposes.

_I mean, what's the use of having magic, if a person can't use it to make their lives – and the lives of other people – more convenient?_

Giving the smoking mushroom on the end of her toasting fork an experimental prod, Merran mused on the sad lack of cheese. While she was quite sure the mushroom wasn't poisonous, fungi in general were not her favourite food. Still, beggars could not be choosers, she reminded herself, nibbling experimentally at the charred dome of her toasted mushroom and thinking that it didn't taste too bad for something without cheddar. What did young Eadric say about Brown Caps? _Something probably involving Antivan Origanum…_Of course, thinking about the young elven Apprentice brought to mind so many others she remembered back at the Tower; Nerood and Butler and Therana…_Ser Cullen…_

_So many gone to the Maker…_

A part of her dearly wished she had insisted on going to the Mages first, instead of Redcliffe. If she had, she might have been able to save more people; stop Uldred but…in the end Merran knew such thoughts were foolish. What could one person; one Grey Warden have done to stop a powerful mage like Uldred and his army of blood mages? And if they had come from the Tower too late to save Redcliffe, what then? The mages weren't defenceless villagers; shop owners, farmers, miners; simple people going about their uncomplicated lives. They had weapons of their own. They'd fought back even if in the end…they had failed.

As the images of her dead fellow Tower denizens circled the inside of her head, Alistair stirred beside her. His eyes flickered open; closing again reflexively when Merran reached out her free hand to place it on his forehead.

"Your fever's gone," she confirmed. "How do you feel?"

"You tried to kill me," he accused hoarsely, earning him a flick to the end of his nose.

"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked while he blinked furiously from the sudden tears inflicted by the attack to his face. "I didn't ask you to follow me."

_Ungrateful wretch…_Alistair thought, mouth twisting. "Well," he began. "Not specifically, but…" Propping himself up caused the blankets to pool at his waist and forced him to make an uncomfortable observation. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded. His eyes widened as big as saucers when realisation began to dawn…"Did you…did you…_strip me?_" he rasped, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

"Tch," Merran rolled her eyes at what she thought was a rather melodramatic reaction. "Would you rather I left you in smelly wet clothes?" she asked him.

"Well...I…it…"

Grabbing the blanket, he yanked it protectively up to his chin, folding his feet in close when doing so caused his shins to be exposed. "It's the _principle_ of the thing," he said defensively, attempting to tuck the blanket around his toes, but finding when he did so that it left his shoulders bare again. "You know if this happened to you, there'd be an explosion of sudden frog…swords at dawn; or at the very _least_ an exchange of cows."

"Cows, Alistair? Really?"

"For my dowry," he explained with another offended sniff. "I know how these things work. I feel…dirty; soiled. My virtue has been compromised I'll have you know. I mean, we've barely known each other a few months. You haven't even bought me dinner or spoken to my parents…"

Merran waved a mushroom at him. "Oh for pity's sake," she snorted derisively. Angling her head, she gave him a long look. "It's not like there's anything under that blanket that I haven't seen before, so you can just…" An image from Zevran's Fade dream popped into her head and she had to give it a darn good shake to dislodge it.

"Oh, I _see…_" Alistair sneered. "Is that supposed to make it better? Because it doesn't, you know." Clutching at the blankets again, he added; "How do I know you're not some kind of mage pervert…? Ogling me the whole time I was unconscious and defenceless? How do I know…" he narrowed his eyes at her, "…you haven't taken advantage of me? Jowan's told me all about the dirty shenanigans at the Tower of Magi. It's just a hotbed of-"

The door crashed open, cutting off Alistair's speech to reveal a hooded figure outlined by the storm.

"You two!" the figure shouted authoritatively. "No sudden moves and keep your hands where I can see them!"

As the figure stepped inside the doorway, she threw back her hood, revealing a head of shocking red hair and deep green eyes that travelled in growing interest over the blanket-clad Alistair.

"Except for the blond one," she added, her head tilting for a better view. An appreciative smile curved her pouty lips. "Him now…He can put _his _hands wherever he _likes_…"

-oo-

Leliana paced, impatient to leave. Being made to wait until the storm had passed had been frustrating enough. It was morning; they should be on the move, not waiting while the mages decided what best to bring with them, bestowing her sternest stare on the First Enchanter as he handed parcel after parcel to the white-haired female mage. _She _was apparently coming along, though Merran had not said anything to _her _about it and why no one else questioned this addition in the absence of _both _Grey Wardens, she did not know. For that matter none of the others appeared to take Merran's disappearance seriously…Zevran occupying himself charming a pair of pretty twin mages…the mabari relieving herself on a statue of Andraste in an act of canine blasphemy that had Leliana's head reeling.

As for Sten; he appeared to be engrossed by the contents of the paper packet clutched possessively in one hand. He might look grave, but his comments that _these cookies require less sugar and more currant…_and _I must remember to pass on my recommendations to the mage the next time I see her…_said otherwise; as though finding Merran's cold, lifeless body at the bottom of Lake Calenhad was not a sure thing. Pushing the impulse to snatch the paper bag away and crush its contents under the heel of her unfashionable boot, Leliana continued to pace. For all they knew Merran had been kidnapped by unscrupulous brigands, subjected to untold horrors…her innocence so cruelly stripped from her…

She could only hope that Alistair had managed to catch up with her. Somehow. Some time. It had surprised her; Alistair racing off to Merran's rescue. Like a hero in a fairytale; the handsome prince flying to the damsel in distress…except from what she had seen of Alistair so far, he was more likely to throw poor Mer-Mer in the way of ravenous wolves so he could make good his own escape or…

"My dear…"

Leliana felt a sharp prod in her arm. She blinked into a pair of pale blue eyes. "If you are finished daydreaming…" the elderly mage crooked an eyebrow at her, implying with that simple gesture that it was _she _holding the others up. Without waiting for a response, Senior Enchanter Wynne turned, gesturing the group from the hall, while Leliana gaped in amazement.

"But I…" she began when Zevran passed by. He tossed a cheeky grin over his shoulder at her.

"I too await Leliana's pleasure," he informed the others while the giant qunari did not even bother to spare her a glance; he and the mabari pushing past her towards the exit.

"The Sister has always slowed us down," Sten stated in a dull, bored voice, the mabari adding a huffing bark that sounded like agreement.

Leliana glared at their backs, speechless.

"Honestly," the Senior Enchanter took curled a surprisingly strong hand about Leliana's upper arm. "I don't know how any of you got anything done." Turning to Irving one last time, Wynne wagged a warning finger. "Now _Irving…_I trust you will endeavour to dress appropriately for the weather _and _company! I took the liberty of locating your stomach warmer and a few pairs of nice, thick socks…_Why_ they were at the bottom of Mrs Murtlock's rag barrel I'll never know! But there you are…Speaking of the kitchen staff, I've left _strict _instructions that they are under no circumstances allowed to serve you pudding for breakfast! Mind your greens Irving! At your age, roughage is _so _important! Oh and…"

As the white-haired, scolding Senior mage leant close to the First Enchanter, he flinched backwards. Wynne merely smiled and patted his cheek in a motherly way.

"And may the Maker watch over you, First Enchanter," she told him.

"A-and you too, Senior Enchanter," Irving found himself replying obediently. _Curse the woman!_

At the docks outside, the old boatman Kester awaited the Grey Warden party, interested to see such a fascinating group of folk and happy to be back at his oars again. The trip across the still-choppy waters of Lake Calenhad was necessarily careful and therefore slow. To pass the time and to avoid having to speak to the stern mage or any of the others, Leliana extracted her lute from her pack, plucking idly at the strings until Cullen, having had enough of the discordant, ear-tearing noises, seized the neck of the lute in her massive jaws and took it to the far end of the boat, where she sat on it, glaring a challenge at the Bard until Leliana gave up being indignant and found someone else to be angry at.

With nothing else to do, Leliana could not reach the other side of the lake too soon. When the boat hull bumped against the shore, she was the first out, springing onto the grass and prowling the shoreline for any clues of Merran having passed this way. She squinted at the water, watching the lake currents before starting northwards along the shore. Her search took her to a rocky promontory that would have required a plunge into the frigid waters of Lake Calenhad or a lengthy detour on land to pass. As she doubted any of the others would agree to an impromptu swim, Leliana led the group inland, backtracking towards the lake as soon as the terrain allowed.

The shore on the other side was rockier, less liable to hold footprints…not that the storm the previous night would have allowed left behind any trace…but Cullen, after criss-crossing the ground at the water's edge, gave a sharp bark and raced towards the surrounding forest.

The group soon arrived at a derelict wooden structure…and muddy footprints on the sheltered porch. Inside, the group found a crumpled blanket and an abandoned meal of mushrooms…The mabari barked again, turning to the elderly mage.

"Yes," Wynne nodded, tilting her head upwards. "You are correct. Magic has been used here…and recently." She picked up a mushroom, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. "Dear me…It appears young Amell did not pay much attention in Herb Appreciation classes either. I do hope neither of the Grey Wardens ate any of these. They'll be seeing pink elephants all day, if so…"

"Wroof!"

Wynne raised her eyebrows. "You don't say? Well, not poisonous for a _mabari _perhaps, but for humans, _well_…"

With a canine grin, Cullen plucked the mushroom from Wynne's fingers and swallowed it whole. Wynne frowned at the beast. "Well, if you're absolutely sure…"

"Wrurgh! Oof!"

"Hmph," Wynne snorted. "Well, you have been warned," she added coolly. "Don't come to me when your stomach feels as though it's attempting to strangle you from the inside out…"

Zevran appeared at their side, his voice pitched low and his golden eyes watchful. "They were not alone," he told them both. Stepping up to the open door, he inspected the wood of the door frame. "Kicked in with some force, I would say," he concluded with a very professional air. "By a…I would _have_ to say…by a scarlet haired temptress of approximately five foot, seven inches in height…slender build and wearing leather armour, embellished with a pattern of…let me see…it is either a wolf or a large, aggressive beaver wearing a plaid scarf. The beaver, not the woman."

Wynne rose with a chorus of creaking of bones, her eyes widening, impressed. "You got all _that_ simply from observing the door?" she asked. "My goodness!"

Zevran's mouth crooked, showing a slightly nervous smile. "Uh, no…" he admitted. "The woman I speak of is at this moment pointing a loaded crossbow at a part I would prefer to remain…attached to me. And unharmed."

"What!" Leliana sprang towards the cabin exit. She leapt at Zevran's 'scarlet-haired temptress', daggers drawn…just as the woman loosed the bolt of her crossbow…

-oo-

"What is your diagnosis?"

Lines crinkling her forehead, Merran pulled the blanket over the unconscious man while she considered her answer. They were in a place called Hunters Fell; a rather quaint area she would have found fascinating at any other time. The family who lived here had been in service to the Couslands for what seemed forever…it felt truly 'Fereldan'; the sort of place she'd expect to see in the countryside; idyllic green hills, comfortable cottages with home gardens, people living at one with the land. And the Gilmores themselves were a big-hearted, rambunctious lot; welcoming her into their midst like an old and much beloved member of the family.

She just wished she could do more for these lovely people.

The young woman who'd spoken earlier sat hollow-eyed with fatigue beside her. She was beautiful in that strong-jawed, high-cheeked, elegantly noble way that Leliana's stories often described. Of course, Alyssa Cousland _was_ nobility so it was no wonder; the only daughter of the Teyrn of Highever; a man that ranked second in importance to the King himself and…if the rumours were true, had been in line to succeed the throne if the line of Maric the Saviour ever failed…

"You needn't sugarcoat it," Alyssa told her softly. "I think…I think we already know that the situation is not as good as we would wish."

Rising, Merran indicated the two of them leave the room, her eyes automatically scanning the sleeping Teyrna on her way out. A spare blanket had been thrown around Teyrna Eleanor's shoulders; looking uncomfortable and worried even in sleep. Merran closed the door softly behind them, wishing Senior Enchanter Wynne were here. At the very least Wynne would have known how to make the Teyrn's final hours more comfortable. Merran had been able to meld flesh together, to splint the more obvious bone breakages but…Teyrn Cousland had lost far too much blood. She also suspected internal injuries; something Merran had no idea how to treat.

Head bowed, Lady Alyssa was the first to speak. "There is nothing that we can do, is there?'

Merran gave the tiniest of nods. "My magic is almost depleted," she told the noble woman. "And I don't know how-"

"Then you need lyrium?" Lady Alyssa's head jerked up, looking hopeful. "That is what mages use, is it not? If we can find enough lyrium for you…we can keep him alive…We can…" Her words faltered at Merran's expression. "But that would not be enough, would it?"

While she did not want to fill the Lady Alyssa with false hope, neither could she bring herself to convey the awful truth…_your father is dying…and the only magic I'm good at is destructive…_In fact, dosed with lyrium, her magic was erratic, unfocussed. Faced with a tower full of darkspawn it did not matter much. In the area of healing, far more care needed to be taken. Care she was not particularly good at.

"If you can find lyrium," Merran said, refusing to meet Lady Alyssa's tired gaze, "I will…It will replenish my mana, true…"

"Then I will endeavour to find you as much as I can!" Lady Alyssa smiled, clasping Merran's arm gratefully. "Thank you Enchanter Merran! Truly, you have our eternal gratitude."

Having turned away, Lady Alyssa did not see Merran's guilty grimace. She did however, spot the other Grey Warden, Alistair at the end of the hall, waving for Merran's attention. Lifting her own hand in greeting, Lady Alyssa passed into the next room; Merran hurrying forward to meet Alistair at the front door. Taking his arm, she urged him back outside where the younger Gilmores were at play; bright heads bobbing in and out of the tall grass like giant, giggling poppies. There were eight Gilmore children in all, ranging in age from adult to toddler and all of them had red hair and green eyes varying in colour from deep forest green to light jade.

By mutual consent the two Grey Wardens continued on, out of hearing range to a quieter part of the garden.

"I won't keep you long," Alistair promised, keeping his eye on the distant Gilmore poppies. "But I wanted to ask: how is the Teyrn?"

Merran didn't answer, directing her gaze to the trampled grass at her feet. Alistair sighed. "Then it's worse than I thought," he frowned. "Ser Gilmore tells me the Teyrn's heir was sent to Ostagar. Neither he or his troops have been heard from since." Leaning his back against a tree trunk, Alistair too watched the grass unfold in tiny increments. "There have been other developments," he added in a quieter voice. "It seems that the Arl of Amaranthine – the one _behind _the attack – has just declared _himself_ the new Teyrn. By Right of Conquest." A scornful snort followed. "As for _General Loghain…_well, say hello to our new Regent. If I was a paranoid person," he snorted again, "I'd say Loghain and this _Arl _have conspired to take over…Were you aware that the Landsmeet voted for Bryce Cousland to replace King Maric after his death?"

Merran nodded. The Circle of Magi may be isolated physically, but it wasn't an information vacuum. The news of the Landsmeet's decision over who would be King of Ferelden had been one of the longest recorded this current Age. It only ended when Bryce Cousland, tired of the bickering, threw his support behind the almost twenty-year old Prince Cailan.

That had been…eight years ago? And now…General Loghain's abandonment of his King on the battlefield…the betrayal of Teyrn Cousland by the Arl of Amaranthine…the poisoning of the Arl of Redcliffe (King Cailan's uncle, no less…Jowan confessed he'd been approached by Loghain to poison the Arl). Alistair wasn't being paranoid. All of this had been planned, though for how long?

_And why?_

In her mind's eye Merran could picture Ferelden stretched out before the General like a giant Plonk board, moving his little Peons, Knights and Revered Mother figures about the Bannorn as he wished. His daughter may have married King Cailan, and Loghain Mac Tir was a Teryn by appointment, but he was not entitled to the crown…unless he too won the position by conquest. She had not thought the General so ruthless to cast aside his own daughter and incite civil war and yet…it appeared that this was exactly what was happening.

"Are you alright?" Placing his hand under her chin, Alistair forced her to look at him, concern wrinkling his forehead. "You look awful."

Batting his hand away, Merran forced a smile. "Lady Alyssa will try to find some lyrium," she told him. "So I can keep…going."

"The way you look," Alistair's frown deepened. "That might not be a good idea."

Merran shrugged. She didn't know what else to do. "I have to try," she told him, her traitorous eyes welling with tears. Trying to pass off her reddened eyes as merely some kind of allergic reaction, she stepped away…catching sight of something that caused her to gasp. She took off with a squeal, flying across the grass towards the garden gate. Alistair turned, puzzled, when he too spied what Merran had; a familiar and very welcome white-haired woman dressed in the colours of a Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi.

Beaming, Alistair started forward when a flame-haired projectile slammed into him, preventing him from going further. Arms and legs wrapped about his torso like the appendages of an octopus, a womanly but nevertheless aggressive mouth sought out his own in a passionate kiss that sucked the breath from his lungs while he wheeled his arms, fighting for balance.

"Oh!" an angry voice berated him. "How…how _inappropriate_!"

In between the face-sucking and the grabbing, Alistair caught sight of Leliana's fury-reddened face. Attempting to prise the human limpet from his body, he managed to gasp; "Leliana…help…can't…_breathe_…"

His assailant disengaged herself for the briefest moment to address the rude interruption. Bestowing her most offended glance on the other redhead, she sniffed in disdain. "Alistair _darling_," she began "Who _is_ the old baggage?"

"_Old…_!" Leliana sputtered, taken back in outrage. "And…and _baggage?_ I'll give you 'old', you…you…_little girl_!"

"Wow, Leliana," Alistair sighed, disappointed. "That's telling her. I mean, don't hold back on my account or anything."

Worse, a familiar mocking chuckle insinuated itself behind him. Zevran circled Alistair with glinting eyes, enjoying the Grey Warden's discomfort immensely. "Alistair, my friend," the assassin grinned. "Allow me to congratulate you on your fashion sense. However; as…decorative as this new…'arrangement' might be, I believe this kind of armour may not be as effective as perhaps plate mail. Your back for instance, appears to be quite _exposed._"

"Thank you very _much_, Zevran," Alistair replied sourly, hands on hips. _Oh he'll pay for this later…_Alistair promised himself. _Oh yes, he will._

"Ranie," another voice scolded, "Let the nice Grey Warden go. You can play with him another time."

With a pout the clinging, winsome Ranie loosened her grip. Falling lightly to her feet, she gave Alistair's arm a particularly affectionate hug and an adoring stroke of his cheek. Poking her tongue at her brother, she made Alistair jump and squeak by bestowing an even more affectionate pinch to his left buttock.

"Ranie…!" "You're unbelievable!" Ser Gilmore and Leliana both said at the same time; Leliana's glare at the hapless Warden even more accusatory.

"Can the man help being so utterly irresistible..?" Zevran came to Alistair's defence, though the recipient of this very gracious rescue did _not _appreciate his _other _buttock being pinched by the assassin. "Surely you cannot blame him?"

The tall, red-haired man accompanying Leliana and Zevran ran an embarrassed hand through his hair. "I apologise for my sister's behaviour," he grimaced. "I am afraid Ranie's too used to having her own way around my brothers…"

Ranie Gilmore might be absolutely terrifying, but the eldest Gilmore, Roland was a different kettle of fish altogether. Alistair found it difficult to be angry at the man, or blame him for his younger sibling's behaviour. Especially, considering Ser Gilmore had saved him from his enthusiastic sister on more than one occasion already.

"Has there been any development with the Teyrn?" Ser Gilmore asked hopefully.

Alistair shrugged, wishing he'd been able to speak longer with Merran about the badly injured Teyrn Cousland, but Ser Gilmore was as perceptive as his sister was persistent, reading Alistair's silence as _not good_. "Well," he said, forcing confidence into his voice. "We have _two_ healers now. Maker willing, we will see some improvement in the good Teyrn soon…"

Alistair did not reply. In the short time he and Merran had been here, they'd found how much affection the Gilmores had for the Couslands and in particular, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. They were good people…_just like Duncan and the other Grey Wardens had been good people…_Alistair thought glumly. Was this how the world worked? Was this how it was always going to be? The good losing out to the bad because they trusted, because they _believed? _Just as Teyrn Cousland had believed Arl Howe would accompany him to Ostagar, so had Duncan and King Cailan believed Loghain would come to their aid…

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Ser Gilmore's eager voice; "I should…" He bowed to the party. "If you will excuse me Warden, I should see whether the Mages or the Teyrna require anything."

"What a lovely young man," Leliana said quietly as they watched the young Highever knight cross the garden towards the house. "We heard what transpired in Highever. It's awful…innocent women and children…slaughtered…" She looked over at Alistair to find him deep in thought. "I don't know what forces brought you and Merran here, but…perhaps the Maker had a plan for the both of you in doing so…What will you do?"

"There is a Blight," Zevran reminded her. "Darkspawn…You cannot have forgotten them."

_No…I haven't forgotten…_Alistair thought fiercely, clenching his fists at his sides and as he lifted his head, jaw set squarely, anger burning in his deep honey coloured eyes, Leliana found herself inhaling sharply. Alistair looked…almost…_kingly…_

"Sten might disagree with me…" Alistair began. "But I cannot, in conscience, let this pass." The darkspawn _needed _to be defeated. The Archdemon _needed _to be found and vanquished, but Loghain _needed_ to pay for what he had done at Ostagar. The Grey Wardens _needed _allies and Highever was – _still is _– a powerful Teyrnir. He could not save Duncan or Cailan. In all likelihood they could not save Bryce Cousland either, but the Couslands and the Gilmores gave a damn whether or not Ferelden was being swallowed by the darkspawn.

Loghain…or Rendon Howe, from what evidence he had seen so far…appeared to believe otherwise.

"What will we do?" Alistair faced Leliana squarely. "We take back Highever…"

It was a plan he was eager to execute, though the Teryn of Highever was not to see his lands set free. By the following morning and despite the best efforts of the Circle mages, Bryce Cousland breathed his last.

-oo-


	20. Warden's Dream

Thanks again everyone for your reviews and favouriting (I'm sure that's not a word…). It's super appreciated!

-oo-

**Chapter 20 – Warden's Dream**

Merran swatted Cullen's muzzle aside yet again, but the mabari was undeterred; burrowing her drooling muzzle into Merran's hand with an insistent whine. Behind, urgent hissing pleaded wordlessly for quiet, as though it was _she_ making the noise…And this from people that shushed, jangled, shuffled and _breathed _far more loudly than the mabari whining in the narrow, dank passages of underground Highever. Surely an animalian sound would be unremarkable where the almost constant skittering of various rodents and crittery things were part of the background.

As there was little opportunity to defend herself, Merran fixed her gaze on Lady Alyssa and Ser Gilmore in the lead, trying hard to ignore Cullen nipping at her fingers. The Couslands had used one of these secret tunnels to escape Rendon Howe's soldiers, though Lady Alyssa expected that route to have been blocked off by now. It didn't matter. There were others…and having played in them as children, there were few who knew them better than Lady Alyssa and her brother Fergus.

The party came to another halt. As Alyssa Cousland studied another marker, Merran batted at Cullen's nose, causing the mabari to shove her muzzle at her with even more force. With a grunt, Merran found herself pushed sideways into the tunnel wall and then pinned there by the mabari's massive bulk. The party began to move again, but Cullen did not; keeping her pressed up against the slimy wall until she was – again – at the back of the group.

Merran threw her hands up. She knew Cullen was only trying to keep her from being at the front of the raiding party and therefore away from harm. Her mabari had not forgiven her for being left behind at Kinloch Hall and was now determined to demonstrate how deeply her separation issues ran.

Unfortunately, Alistair was also utilising Merran as his human shield against Ranie Gilmore's amorous assaults. So it was no surprise that barely a second after Cullen felt it safe to release Merran that Alistair appeared; frazzled and annoyed. Giving her a further, pointed look, he picked her up and repositioned her firmly in front of him, frog-marching her after the others. A tug of war between Grey Warden and mabari then ensued; with the metal toe caps of Alistair's boots barking the backs of Merran's ankles while Cullen; jaws clamped firmly about Merran's forearm, attempted to claim the mage for herself. Tugged one way, and pushed the other Merran found herself tangling in a mess of legs and paws…She pitched forward in the darkness, finding an angled pile of jagged stone breaking her fall.

_Steps…_she realised.

_Also, ouch…! _Because that had been rather _painful._

There was a flash of light up ahead, illuminating the narrow space. _Uh huh, as I thought…steps._

_Still…ouch. _Because darn, in her fall Alistair had _stepped _on her hand and Cullen had landed on her back and she was quite sure she'd twisted something she'd probably need later, like her _spine…_but the person she wanted to hex had already gone on ahead.

_I must remember to tell Ranie how much Alistair admires her the next time I to speak that girl…_

While Merran plotted her revenge, the raiding party continued, emptying into a stone-walled room hung with shredded banners and mouldering tapestries. Flexing her bruised fingers, Merran stepped in after the others and looked about. Scattered throughout the room were what appeared to be the remains of pews; smashed to firewood. The walls and floor were liberally smeared with dried blood; scorched pages of_ The_ _Chant of Light _strewn across flagstones. Clearly, Arl Howe's soldiers were not worried about the salvation of their souls or they would have left this place of worship alone.

Merran craned her neck. Alyssa Cousland knelt at the door at the far end, working at the lock with a thin piece of metal. It seemed deportment and the correct use of cutlery weren't the only things a young noblewoman learned…

The plan had been to sneak into the castle via the secret passage to the chapel and then wait for the diversion at the castle gates. Once fighting began, their party would join the battle, hemming in Rendon Howe's soldiers from behind. All they needed was to listen for the signal, hoping the gate party was on time for their attack.

Pressing his own ear up to the stone, Alistair tried not to fidget. He especially tried not to think of _Ostagar _and how that battle had gone. _A complete and utter mess…_Sighing he turned away, coming eye to eye with Leliana's fuming gaze.

She was still apparently angry about the…Ranunculus Gilmore thing. Though quite frankly, Alistair didn't know why. Was it _his _fault a pretty girl had taken a liking to him? Could he help being charming, handsome, witty, appealing…? Rolling his eyes at his list of immodest claims, he pointedly looked away, provoking a snort of disgust from the dual-wielding ex-lay sister. _Why _and how Leliana believed there was some kind of 'thing' between he and Merran was…well it was inconceivable. Even if he knew what Leliana meant by 'thing', there would be absolutely, utterly, impossibly, definitely no…His wandering gaze had fallen upon the very same person he'd been _not _considering and his jaw dropped.

Sitting on an upturned pew his fellow Grey Warden had settled herself comfortably with Cullen on one side and Ranie Gilmore on the other, thick slices of bread and cheese between them…toasting them over a magical flame…

_Is this real? Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing, _he wondered? As the melted golden slices began being handed around, Alistair's stomach growled hungrily. Everyone received a piece; Ranie _two…_Everyone that is, besides him. Maybe she was about to toast some more but no…she was already tidying up and then with a slice clamped firmly between her teeth, Merran looked towards him and thumbed her nose at him.

It had been deliberate. Feeling quite hard done by, Alistair had taken a step towards her when Alyssa Cousland stood up suddenly.

"It's begun…" she told them, setting her jaw and drawing her sword. Waiting two heartbeats more, she turned the door handle and stepped into the stone passageway.

The others sprang after her. Only Merran, still putting away her snack things, was the last to leave…besides Alistair. As she passed through the door, his arm snaked out and grabbed a fistful of her collar. "No frogs, lizards or salamanders," he warned her with waggling finger. "_Especially _salamanders!"

Struggling to free herself, Merran kicked out at his shin. "I'm not killing any humans!" she protested. Darkspawn were one thing but…people? The Circle were very particular about that sort of thing. Maiming, disfiguring, incapacitating and transforming however…that was _different._ Mages did not take lives.

"These are _soldiers _Merran, and that's not my point," Alistair argued. "My point is…no animalian transformations. Freeze, burn I don't care, just…can we not for once have a room full of slimy creatures to re-home afterwards? Or having to scrape frog gizzards out of the bottom of my boots? That would be _great, _thanks."

Merran gave him a sour look. "Oh you're so…" _selfish._ Thinking about his armour getting dirty when there were more important things to worry about? _Ugh! _She stamped her foot, about to berate him when Ranie Gilmore appeared; wondering what was taking her two heroes so long. Giggling at Merran, she tossed an adoring look up at Alistair before clamping both arms about one of his own and dragging him down the corridor.

After thumbing his nose at Alistair's back again, Merran too followed.

-oo-

Arl Rendon Howe – to Alyssa Cousland's furious disappointment – was not to be found among his soldiers. He'd already left for Denerim and it took all of the Teyrna's practiced persuasion to convince her daughter not to head off immediately for the capital. News of Highever's recapture, Teyrna Eleanor argued, would reach Denerim soon enough. The time in between would allow their forces to regroup and begin building their defences; re-establishing their presence in Highever. General Loghain might have declared war on the Bannorn but the darkspawn had no care for civil wars or otherwise. They would advance regardless who was in charge and preparations needed to be made.

As well the Grey Wardens needed to have the ancient treaties claimed. As much as the party at Cousland Castle wanted to clear their honour as murderers of the King and help bring Rendon Howe to justice, without an army behind them, all of them might as well walk straight to Fort Drakon and place their heads under the Executioner's axe.

The Couslands were not without potential allies and the Teyrna was determined to put her experience fighting the Orlesians during the Occupation as well as the years she had spent playing politics in tandem with her canny husband to good use. Not all in the Bannorn would align themselves to Loghain; a man still considered a commoner (and therefore unfit to rule) by many despite his contribution to Ferelden and the King. As for Queen Anora…the information that she had so easily stepped aside for her father was viewed as something in their favour. Dealing with Anora Mac Tir-Theirin's ambition for the throne could be eliminated. For now.

Alistair did not like the way the Teyrna would cast him the odd, speculative look, especially whenever the topic of _ruling Ferelden_ came up. It seemed his obvious resemblance to Kings Cailan and Maric were forever to haunt him; the very fact that he was the last, known, living Theirin added to the growing frequency of speculation by the Teyrna. Yes. He knew where _that _was likely to go and being a good Grey Warden and a patriotic Fereldan, Alistair did what every sensible hero would.

He ran.

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten what an excellent tracker Ranie Gilmore was and his escape was fated to be short lived. Surrounded by thick forest, his movement muffled by the dense bracken, he had little warning he'd been discovered until a high pitched, excited squeal exploded above him and something red and sharp landed hard on his back.

Managing to escape his leather-plaid Alistair-fanatic few precious minutes, he found himself ruthlessly charged and brought down; pinned to the ground by a pair of extremely strong, though feminine thighs.

"Caught you!" Ranie crowed, waving a dagger under his nose. Adjusting herself to sit cross-legged on his chest, she tapped his nose with the tip of the dagger. "You run real fast for someone your size, Warden Alistair…" Consecutively drumming a finger and her dagger on his chest plate, she giggled, "Did you know that your name _means_ 'defender of the people'? Ooh!" she gave a girlish shudder of delight, "It's _so_ you!" Swaying from side to side she added in a dreamy voice: "Has anyone told you how handsome you are?"

Alistair blinked. "Uh…" he felt compelled to answer. "There was that one time in Denerim…" But those women had _not __been _like Ranie Gilmore. For a start, they had known what the letters 'N' and 'O' spelt. And for all the winsome, com-hither looks and the bruises on his bottom they had bestowed on him, those women were still far less terrifying than a knife-wielding female Gilmore cutting off the air to his brain. In hindsight, he would much prefer the bottom bruises.

"Do you think I'm beautiful?"

The question caught Alistair off-guard. Was she what? If he said yes, Leliana would kill him. If he said no, he was dead anyway.

"I…" Alistair gulped, desperately prodding his oxygen-fatigued brain for an answer. "I prefer brunettes…" _Wait. What? When did _that _happen?_ Because the image of the only brunette he knew (besides Morrigan that is, and witches didn't _count_) that swam leisurely into his head was as unexpected as an Archdemon asking him to a dinner date and a romantic stroll along the beach. Merran…pretty? _Well…her eyes maybe…_they way they sparkled at him when she was angry…and that cute way a single dimple appeared in one cheek when she smiled, plus she had awesome hair; a sort of chestnut that shone with red and gold in sunli…_what the FADE are you thinking, man?_!

While Alistair struggled to comprehend the direction his thoughts had taken, Ranie continued to chatter nonsensically until the fog from his brain cleared and his ears began to work properly again.

"…sooooo sweet…Because marrying a man who bites his nails? _Ugh! _But when you tell papa how much in love with me you are, I just _know _he'll come around to the idea of our marrying…I'm available next autumn – Oh! That's like _three _weeks away! – but I have a dress all picked out and I'll wear my favourite sword and you'll be just you – gorgeous! – and anyway who'd want to marry a man who picks his scabs and is shorter than you? Just because he's got a bit of chest hair and speaks fluent Antivan doesn't mean – oh! Rory can be your Best Man! – unless you want that very handsome elf you brought along and then we can-"

"Wait. Stop!" Head spinning, if Alistair thought he'd been missing something previously, he'd definitely not only failed to board the boat on the start of Ranie's speech but to book the ticket and pack his trunks.

"And if he doesn't agree…" Ranie's bottom lip protruded stubbornly, "Then I'll just get you to impregnate me and then he'd _have _to make you marry me by crossbow…Ooh!" she clasped her hands together. "That would be soooo much fun!"

"I'm…_whaaaaaaat?_" Alistair began his struggle to free himself anew.

"…need do is decide just _who _is going to be my maid of honour because while it _could _be Rhea, I'm not talking to her at the moment because she nicked my favourite shortbow and you just don't _do _that to your sister, so then Rosie would have to do but then, Roger, Ranulph and Roderick will feel left out." She sighed. "It's a pity Rauleigh's just a baby, otherwise he can be your best man too – I know! He can be your best baby-man! Wouldn't that be sweet?"

Alistair had _seen _Ranie's mouth moving but had not heard anything else, his brain having been stuck on the word 'impregnate' amidst visions of fire and brimstone and Chantry Sisters scolding him into the fiery pits of hell where his soul would forever suffer in eternal damnation. Forever. _Eternally. _A particularly intense burst of guilt-ridden energy caused him to spring to his feet; Ranie Gilmore flying several feet up into the air to land in a thicket of ferns some distance away. Alistair began once more to back away.

"N-n-n-now _Miss _Gilmore…" he began, "I…You're a nice girl and everything but…" _You're a terrifying nymphomaniac who makes me fear most ardently for my manly parts…_Why did they never teach this at the monastery? Opening doors, laying one's cloak over muddy puddles, the proper angle at which to bow, the correct address to employ when requesting the hand of a girl for a country dance…Those Sisters at the Denerim Monastery had been quite detailed about those. How to turn down a fiery red-haired nymphet wielding a very sharp hunting knife? There was nothing he'd learned in the nearly ten years of education from the Chantry to deal with girls like Ranunculus Gilmore.

If he survived this afternoon however, he would definitely petition for a manual.

"Oh…" Ranie sighed, head bowing. "I think I know this speech." Lifting her head revealed a trembling lower lip. "You're right," she continued in a smaller voice. "I can't compete with Warden Merran…She's the love of your life. I understand…"

"_What?__" _Alistair shouted so loudly, birds roosting in some branches above him were startled into sudden flight. "I…tha…Merr…? _No_! No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!"

But Ranie was no longer listening again. Clasping her hands, she stared dreamily off into the distance. "The two of you…The last two Grey Wardens left in Thedas…in a war-torn world that's gone mad…It's like every romantic story I've ever read. The Bards will be singing of you long after your cold, dead bodies have rotted into dust…"

With a soft groan, Alistair slapped his forehead. _I can't keep up anymore…_

"And then there was that time when I caught the two of you hiding behind the tool shed. "Clapping a hand to her mouth, her eyes widened. "Oh! Oh I'm so sorry! I must have interrupted an intimate tryst. I'm so-"

"Oh for the love of…! That's really not it! It…I'm…"

"He's celibate."

The voice appeared seemingly from the trees. From out of the shadow of a tangle of overhung vines stepped Merran. As she neared, she threw her braid over her shoulder, revealing a pale face streaked with grime, as though she'd been crying…though Alistair could not quite figure out why she might have been doing so. Her dun-coloured shirt was just as filthy and knuckling tiredly at her eyes only made her appearance worse.

"He's Chantry-trained; a Templar, " Merran explained gently to the other girl. "Templars take vows of temperance, piety, chastity…" She waved a dismissive hand at him. "I mean, look at him. Does Alistair _look _like someone who knows how to be _intimate _with a woman?"

"Now wait just a minute…!" Alistair began and alright so the Chantry _did _teach him that even considering holding hands with a girl would require formal permission from at least three legal guardians but…did Merran really need to point this out at the expense of his manly feelings? All one of them?

"But that's what makes him so cute," Ranie sighed longingly. "He looks so…so _virginal…_and the whole chastity thing?" Taking a step step closer, Ranie Gilmore ran her fingers over the Burning Sword of Andraste embossed on Alistair's chest plate. "That just makes him even more appealing."

Alistair's jaw dropped. Merran smiled faintly, eyes slightly glazed. It was then Alistair noticed how ashen his fellow Grey Warden was under the grime. _What's she been doing? _Before he could ask however, Merran made a soft 'mph' noise before crumpling to the ground, motionless.

-oo-

A curdling river of molten rock illuminated the canyon walls in glowing reds, yellows and flickering blacks. Merran opened her eyes to a rocky ceiling; her skin stinging from the heat of lava even at this distance. She lay prone; her limbs heavy, alien and unfamiliar yet…how many times had she come to this place in her dreams? The same place repeated over and over and over?

_Too many to count…_

In truth the frequency of these dreams had been less so in the last few months; the dragon's presence a mere flicker in the back of her mind…softly screaming for release…calling…always calling...Opening her eyes a second time, Merran's body bent; muscles moving over muscles until she was sitting upright.

_What do my Masters bid me do?_

The reply reverberated from rock wall to rock wall…"Cover the land with our darkness…" it commanded. "Destroy the weak. Grant us rule over land, water and sky…Masters of all as we deserve. Revenge on those who cast us from our rightful place."

_I cannot do this…to destroy life is against my very existence…_Anger flared in Merran's mind. Her body sprung upright. Feet dragging heavily, she advanced on the winged shape, electric fire crackling about her fingertips; but it was not _her_ magic…_What is this? M__agic exists to serve man…_She raised arms that were not hers; rotting scales and decomposing flesh in between…claws curling as they sparked…_Magic exists to serve man…_The dragon reared with a tearing cry; talons sliced across her chest…and a voice she did not own screamed in agony…

"I swear young man, if you Holy Smite that girl I'm going to hit you with my big stick _so_ hard, you'll be seeing stars to the end of your days!"

"I'm trying to…_argh_!" a voice yelled…human? "When did she get so strong – Maker's breath! - can't you paralyse her or – ow! – something?"

Merran stilled. The voices around her were familiar, though of an odd timbre, too close. Her eyes opened for the third time; lines and colour resolving into shapes that were slowly becoming recognisable. There were other things; the smell of smoke and wet dog fur along with…cheese. She turned her head. This, this she should know. A person. It…_her._ Merran thought of _circles, _stone and for some reason, pink tea.

The one that made her think of tea said something to the larger shape; a shape that brought to mind…death, pain and…blood. "Let her up _slowly, _Alistair." The tea shape turned to her. "Do you remember what this is?" An object was placed in palm. Her hand. Her real hand. One that felt attached; no claws, scales…only smooth skin.

"Is she possessed?"

"Hush Alistair, I've already told you this is not-"

"Destroy life," Merran whispered to the object. "Destroy us – all of us – everything." She glared at the white-haired one. "We will have dominion over all…and we will…" Her eyes drifted to the other one. "We will…" _Something isn't right here. _

"Can you remember who gave this to you?" the white-haired shape persisted.

Merran switched her attention to the lump of wood in her hand obediently. There was something about the old one's voice. Something that told her she must obey – and obey she did. She curled her fingers around the object; sharp corners digging into the flesh of her hand. When she opened her fingers, Merran saw what it was: a horse, carved out of wood. It had wheels where it should have had hooves and a saddle painted in red on its back. A thin leather strap had been threaded rather cleverly through a metal ring in the horse's mouth, looping across the horse's neck. Reins.

_Oh_…Merran's mouth formed the word soundlessly. When she looked up at Alistair, her face such a picture of confused distress, he felt involuntary tears spring to his own eyes. And when she clutched the horse to her chest, he had to turn away hastily to dash a hand across his cheek.

With a sigh, Senior Enchanter Wynne laid her hand on the younger mage's shoulder.

"You're better now, child." Adding a heavy pat, she added; "And I expect you'll know better the next time you allow yourself to become so exhausted you no longer know who your allies are."

The Senior Enchanter's stern words swept away the last, lingering sensations of the darkspawn dream. She remembered the pyre in Highever. It had rained but she had kept it going. The dead needed to be burned and there had been so many, even if it meant draining her completely of mana. Wynne was right. She had been so exhausted she hadn't been able to stand, staggering unsteadily after the last corpse had been burned, into the forest…

"You should have asked me for help," Wynne continued to scold. Clucking her tongue, the elderly mage picked up a bowl of greyish brown liquid and handed it to her. Merran accepted it with one hand; unwilling to give up the wooden horse. A sip of the bowl's contents indicated it might be something Alistair had made because it tasted like a combination of mud and someone's dirty sock; probably Alistair's sock. Trying not to gag as something slimy and lumpy slipped between her teeth, she attempted to return the bowl.

"This is awful," she managed.

"Oh, is _that_ the thanks I get for all my hard work, slaving over a hot fire?" The creator of the stew pouted at her. He was sitting on…Merran realised she was on a cot of sorts, made out of sacking and packing crates, but…it – they – were moving.

A finger was thrust into her face, distracting her from further observation. "Look!" Alistair wiggled said finger. "A blister. I got that cooking that pie."

Merran glanced dubiously at the grey gloop in her bowl. "This is a pie?"

"Well, granted it doesn't actually have a crust…_now._" Alistair admitted, trying – Merran realised – not to look at Wynne.

"What he means," Wynne told Merran, "is that he apologises most humbly for eating your pie crust." Shaking her head, she added; "Truly Alistair, sometimes I wonder whether you were raised by wolves…"

"I was hungry!" Alistair's cheeks coloured pink. "And it was…anyway. Not wolves. Dogs. Flying ones. Devout Andrastrian hounds. From the Anderfels. Very _strict _ones too."

"Clearly," Wynne rolled her eyes in an attempt not to laugh. If it had been anyone else, the older mage would have simply continued to scold. But not Alistair…"They were not strict enough."

"Uh huh!" Alistair told her cheerfully, deciding the danger had passed. "A whipping every third day, broken glass for breakfast every morning and a bath once a month in a freezing lake."

Wynne snorted, casting a look over her shoulder. "If I had been your parent Alistair, you would have had a whipping _every_ day."

"Aww, Wynne…you care that much for me? I'm touched."

Using the Templar-Grey Warden's shoulder to steady herself, Wynne rose. "The wagon appears to have stopped." She stated. "I need to speak to Mr Feddic about…Alistair, will you look after Merran for a while? I won't be long." With that, Wynne threw down the steps; Alistair gallantly guiding her outside, though Merran suspected Wynne might have jumped down herself. There was life in the old bird few knew about. Including Alistair, who treated Wynne like treasured porcelain.

While Alistair was otherwise occupied, Merran swung her legs out from under the blankets, placing the 'pie' on the boards. She was feeling more herself now and propping her back against the side of the wagon, she turned the wooden horse over in her hands. Yes. She did remember what this was. And yes, who had given it to her too. Engrossed in the toy, Merran did not notice Alistair's return until he spoke.

"Are you going to eat that?"

She looked over at him. Feeling disinclined to speak, she made the wooden horse gallop over to bowl, shudder, then gallop away as fast as she could make it.

"Very amusing," Alistair commented dryly. "Remind me to borrow your horse the next time _you_ cook a meal. Then we'll see how well Dobbin likes the stuff you pretend to cook."

Merran looked up at him sharply. "How did you know the horse was called 'Dobbin'?" she asked, her voice sounding hoarse. Perhaps she should call her throat Dobbin too.

"Ah…" Alistair waved his hands. "I…don't know. It was just a guess? All horses are called Dobbin, aren't they?" He eyed the bowl of stew again. After a split-second decision, he leaned across her, picked it up, produced a spoon seemingly out of nowhere and shovelled a generous lump into his mouth, looking thoughtful as he chewed. After he had swallowed, he replaced the bowl and spoon diligently back where he had found it. "You're right," he admitted with a grimace. "That was terrible. But…not as unpalatable as those green things you serve up."

"They're called vegetables, Alistair," Merran told him quietly. "They're good for you."

"You never cook them enough," he complained.

Several silent moments passed. Merran was content with the quiet. Whatever healing spells Wynne had used had left her feeling like she'd spent all day simply lying out in the warm sun like a lizard, drinking up warmth and fresh air. Completely oblivious to the individual beside her, Merran did not see Alistair fidget, unhappy with the lack of conversation and watchful for more signs of…weirdness.

He cleared his throat. "Um…" he began cautiously, because one never knew. "You're not going to go all ooh, demon-possessey, must have brain again, are you? Because if you do, I'll have to do the Templar thing and if I do, Wynne'll have my guts for gart-"

"I was dreaming that I was a darkspawn," Merran interrupted.

"That's just a Grey Warden thing though…" Alistair said slowly.

"I always have," she admitted. She supposed it was alright for Alistair to know. "The darkspawn dreams."

"Oh." Alistair stared straight ahead. _Always? _Was that possible? On the other hand, he knew Merran had been tainted from birth. Was that what it was like? "That must be…inconvenient," he said eventually, then; "Did Duncan know?"

Merran nodded. "The dream of the dark ones, Gareth told me. Tapping into their 'group mind' through the Taint. It's how Grey Wardens sense a darkspawn attack right? But how darkspawn find Grey Wardens in the end."

It was always how they found her. In her dreams. But…Alistair didn't need to know that. Yet.

"Oh…" Alistair frowned beside her and Merran thought he was going to question her about how else the darkspawn affected her but his next question was completely unexpected. "Gareth told you that? Really?"

Taken aback, though relieved, Merran shrugged. "I'm afraid I grilled poor Gareth like a sausage once I exhausted Duncan with my questions about the Grey Wardens. Well, Gareth and Tolliver." She chuckled. "Poor Tolliver thought I was going to turn him into a frog if he didn't cough up the information so he told me lots of stuff Duncan wouldn't." She shrugged again, mystified by Alistair's wide-eyed expression. "It seemed…silly not to join the Grey Wardens and not ask about them," she explained. Was he angry about that? Asking too much? But Alistair didn't look angry.

He looked embarrassed.

"Ah…" Alistair eventually said in a small voice. "Silly. Huh." In fact, Merran was almost right. Alistair was feeling rather foolish at this moment. All this time he'd believed the newest Grey Warden hadn't been interested at _all _in the Order and he'd been wrong. Very wrong. Well, foolish and self-centred. His pride in being a Grey Warden had led him to believe that it would be _he_ that Merran would seek out for information about the Wardens…except she'd asked everyone else but him, hadn't she? It was probable, he concluded with no small amount of chagrin, that Merran Amell knew more about being a Grey Warden than he did.

_I'm an idiot…_All the reasons he'd had for disliking her, resenting her…They had only existed in his head. And he'd been wrong. All this time. And then she startled him by resting her head on his arm; legs curling beneath her like a sleepy cat.

"I miss them," she said in a shaky whisper. "I wish I had been with them in that battle. I probably would have been completely useless, but I can't help wondering that if I had…even if I'd died, then maybe one of them would have been spared, who knows?"

"Or…" Alistair ventured, for the first time feeling pride in that fact that of all the Wardens that could possibly have survived Ostagar, it had been Merran. Of course, there was Duncan but…"On the other hand every single Grey Warden might have perished and Ferelden would by now be consumed by the Blight." Duncan…Duncan had been close to his Calling. The old Warden Commander had mentioned it to him in confidence. At the time, Alistair had felt privileged knowing. Now…now it felt like a burden.

_But Merran…Merran…__cared. __She cared about the Grey Wardens…A smile curved his lips. __Wow…not only is she an awesome mage and pretty as heck to boot but…huh._

Feeling slightly uncomfortable with Alistair's uncharacteristic seriousness and silence, she marched Dobbin up Alistair's leg. Except instead of laughing and making a joke, he stiffened beside her, placing a very firm hand over hers, halting the wooden horse's progress higher.

"You shouldn't do that," he said, his voice sounding odd to her still-sensitive ears.

_Eh? _"I didn't think you were the ticklish sort." Merran shrugged, finding Alistair scooting further away and depriving her of her pillow. It was rather mean, in her opinion.

"I'm…not. Maybe," Alistair cleared his throat, moving even further away. "It's uh…" Grateful that the inside of the wagon was a little bit dim and his scarlet cheeks might not be as visible, Alistair clasped his hands firmly in his lap and squared his shoulders. A toy horse should not have made his insides do strange flip-flopping, wobbly…things. But it had. _Let's get back on topic shall we? _"So…what else do you dream of?" he asked, trying to sound professional, though…asking a girl about her dreams – in hindsight – was possibly _not _a particularly professional subject.

"There's a dragon," Merran stated. Without Alistair's comfy shoulder, she drew her knees up and rested her chin on those. "A dragon with black scales and blood red eyes…" She slid a cautious look sideways, wondering whether Alistair too dreamt of the same dragon. _They said Grey Wardens dreamed of the Archdemon, didn't they?_

"That'll be the – uh – that'll be the Archdemon…actually."

Merran nodded in relief. "I think I figured that out."

"Why?" Alistair asked, his voice sounding sharp now. "Didn't Gareth didn't tell you? Along with all the other deep and dark Grey Warden secrets?" He blinked. Did he just sound…jealous? He didn't'. He couldn't.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat again, forcing some control on his see-sawing emotions. Was he ill? He didn't think so. "I uh…I probably have an apology to make."

"An apology?" Merran raised an amused eyebrow at him. This time Alistair's ears burned. _Oh Maker, what the Fade is wrong with me? That eyebrow is just too adorable and…It must have been something I ate. Yes. That's it. Bad pie. It explains the sudden dizziness…lightheadedness. I'll have to ask Wynne for a potion later._

"The thing is…the thing is I thought…well I thought that you didn't…care about the Grey Wardens. I mean," he tacked on in a rush. "You didn't ask me, well of course you didn't ask me because you already knew everything because that damned Tolliver and Gareth already…" _Oh damn. There I go again. _"I mean this is…this is good. You…knowing. Now you can teach me all about the Grey Wardens. We can have a quiz. A prize to the person who gets the most…" he frowned. _Oh Maker…her eyes are sparkling at me. Stop it! Stop sparkling…!_ "What?"

Merran rolled her eyes at him. "Sometimes, Alistair," she sighed. "You are so full of rubbish."

"And…stew," he added, certain that if this conversation continued he was either going to do, say or think something incredibly stupid and he would spend the rest of his life regretting it…and _paying _for it, because his life was like that. _Why did I even bother getting out of bed this morning…? _"_But,_" he added. "If you do ever make those cheesy toasty things again, just remember that I _have _apologised and you'll completely overlook the fact that for ages I misunderstood and misjudged you and I'll just stop talking now shall I?"

She patted his leg, making him jump again at the contact. "You do that Alistair," she smiled and this time he scooted so far over to the end of the cot that he fell off in a jangling heap. Struggling upright only made him slip out of the wagon completely. A painful thud later, Merran poked her head out of the back of the wagon. "Where are we anyway?" she asked, because Alistair fell over all the time and apart from looking rather flushed, appeared to be hale and hearty enough.

"Ugh…ow…Denerim." _Maker, can I be any more awkward,_ he berated himself. "Probably."

"Denerim!" Merran exclaimed.

Leaping out herself, she hooked an arm under his and helped him to his feet. "Why didn't you say earlier?"

"Well…" _That really hurt…_And why was she looking so ridiculously happy about being here? Denerim was dangerous to Grey Wardens right now. There was the bounty on their heads for a start. And Denerim was full of General Loghain's soldiers who probably carried about likenesses of the two of them so they could be arrested – or worse – on sight. "You hadn't asked earlier…" Nor had she let go of his arm. An experimental tug only made her clasp it more firmly and he wondered why the weather was being so unseasonably warm of late.

"We're supposed to be looking for Brother Genitivi here, right?" she asked.

"Uh. Yeah…"

"Brilliant!" she exclaimed and Alistair had to squash very firmly a sudden and inexplicable compulsion to…Maker _forbid, _kiss his fellow Grey Warden. He had no idea where that had come from. At all. Wasn't he thinking how much he disliked her a moment ago? Yes. Certainly. How little they had in common? Well. Obviously. He was a…one of _those. _And she was…that…other…thing.

"It's where my natural family live!" she added excitedly. "Oh! Would you mind if we looked them up? Awfully? I'm sure it won't take too long while we're looking for Brother Genitivi. Please say we can, Alistair…please, please pleeeeeease?"

Turning pleading, warm chocolate eyes up at him, Alistair felt his knees turn to soft cheese. The future turned rather dark, dim and somehow…cheeseless. All it contained was this jiggling person and those eyes that he could just not say no to.

He was a lost man.

And he wasn't too sure how he felt about that.

-oo-


	21. The Relativity of Relatives

A/N: *ahem* mention of song about rainbows belongs to Kermit the Frog…who in turn belongs to one of the greatest creative minds our time has ever seen.

-oo-

**Chapter 21 – The Relativity of Relatives**

_There are times, __Alistair thought sourly, __when I think women were invented to make my life miserable. _

"Ouch!" he cried, as his ankle gave way yet again. Not surprising considering the _torture _devices attached to his feet. _Shoes, _Leliana had called them. _Shoes my spotted granny hat…_Alistair growled under his breath, glaring resentfully at the female back ahead of him. The shoes – so they told him – were because he walked like a man. _Oh…big surprise there! I wonder why _that _could be? _Wincing at another painful ankle-turn, Alistair half hopped, trying to catch up. They'd argued the disguise was necessary because he stuck out like a sore thumb on the streets of Denerim. _Obvious, _they had called him. _What? And travelling with a large war dog, a purple-eyed giant and an elf that attempted to seduce passing lamp posts _wasn't _obvious enough? _

_Why pick on him? _

Honestly. No amount of the best blue cheese was worth losing his carefully cultivated scrap of beard…_or _the rouged cheeks…_or _the…the lipstick. _Or this horrible dress. _He much preferred the blue one. It was prettier. And how was he supposed to meet his long lost sister like this anyway? Goldanna was going to think he was some kind of All Fade Souls costumed freak_. __Why did I agree to do this now? _

Because they were in the area, that was why. And if he wanted to see his only known, living relative – and he did – then he would have to do so on their way to find Brother Genitivi while the others scouted the area. None of them could afford to linger too long in the capital city and risk attracting the attention of General Loghain's soldiers.

Still_…_couldn't he change _after_ meeting Goldanna? Alistair eyed a shadowy alley nearby with longing. They could have visited his sister then ducked down there quickly for the magical change before heading on.

"Are you sweating Alistair?"

He found Merran's elbow digging into his unprotected side. She scowled at him. "Stop it, or your face will run."

"I can't meet her like this!" he hissed back. "Can't you just…wave your magic thingamybob and make me look like a man…just for this…_please…_!" he begged.

"We can't risk it…" Merran said, biting her lower lip.

_In that case, time to play dirty…_"What would Duncan have sa…" Alistair had begun when Merran forestalled him with a hasty wave of her hand and a sigh. Her magic washed over him, making his exposed skin tingle. _Had she done it? _Running a hand through his hair found that the long ringlets had been replaced by his own short, neat cut. In place of the frilly yellow dress Merran had conjured shiny plate armour embossed with a rearing Griffon. _This_ was definitely more the business! If he looked like a Grey Warden, then he would _feel_ like a Grey Warden. First impressions were important after all.

While Alistair was admiring Merran's handiwork, he failed to notice the door opening, revealing a harried looking woman in a much-patched apron, eyeing them expectantly. "You need washing done?" the woman asked, pale blue eyes narrowing at Alistair's shiny armour. "Going rate's two bits a bundle and you won't find better elsewhere. I don't care what that knife-ear Natalia says.

"W-we're not here to have our washing done," Alistair stuttered, turning red. Words suddenly failed him. He'd had a speech prepared and everything but all he had now were his nerves and stilted half-sentences. And Merran's expression was not helping either. She was staring at him, open-mouthed. For what reason, he had no idea.

"W-ye…You are Goldanna, that is your name, right?" he continued, ignoring the silly mage by his side.

Merran tore her gaze from Alistair with difficulty. _Nug bottom…! _Her magic had changed Alistair's hair and his clothes, but it hadn't removed the very red lip colour or the rouge or _oh dear, his eyes…!_ Leliana had lined them with Orlesian kohl, but his sweating had made the black smudge, giving him the appearance of a two-legged, deranged racoon in armour. And there was no way to let him know apart from blurting it out and that would have had her Holy Smited faster than she could say 'pickle me a hog's foot'.

Unfortunately (and perhaps not surprisingly), Goldanna _had _noticed and as Alistair continued nervously recounting the story of their mother who'd died in confinement but left a child living her expression darkened; lips thinning into a contracted line of disapproval.

"This some kind of joke?" she demanded finally, waving a lye soap-stained hand at the odd stuttering man. "I dunno what your game is; coming here pretending to be customers. I should call the Watch on you, so I should!"

"What?" Alistair's eyes widened in dismay, exacerbating the racoon effect "No. Of course not…We wouldn't!"

"Well if you've got no business with me," Goldanna told them sharply. "You can clear off! I don't know you from a pig's knuckle 'cept if what you said is true _you've _robbed me of my only parent." Jabbing Alistair's Griffon with a finger, she growled; "I got treated like sewerage no thanks to you. I don't know what you want, but you won't find it _here_."

"Oh, I've had enough!" Merran stamped her foot and stepped in front of Alistair, sparks crackling from her fingertips. "Shall I turn her into a frog, Alistair?" she asked hotly. "Just say the word and I'll do it!"

_Frog? Maker's breath no! _As horrified as he was at the thought of Merran turning his…his _sister _into a hopping creature though, he was abysmally disappointed at how this reunion was turning out. With every glare and scowl, the rosy pink encounter he'd imagined fizzled into ashes.

"Are you threatening me?" Goldanna's voice cut sharply into Alistair's thoughts. "In my own home too? Well, I know my rights I do!" One of Goldanna's windmilling, angry fists connected with Merran's shoulder, knocking the mage backwards. "The Chantry would send an army of Templars if you raise a finger 'gainst me, Mage!"

_This is getting out of hand fast, _Alistair thought with rising panic and anger. Placing his hand on Merran's shoulder he winced as electricity surged and crackled up his arm.

"Hey," he began sternly, because damnit they were _Grey Wardens, _fighting the Blight to _save _people like these…"Abuse me if that makes you feel better, but this _woman _is a Grey Warden like me and she deserves a little bit of respect!"

"Ooh, a Grey Warden as well as a prince?" Goldanna responded, sarcasm dripping from every word. "And here I thought the two of you were a couple of travelling Carnies, having a bit of fun at my expense. You're all a bit _strange…_you theatre folk with your smarmy ways and your silver tongues…"

"…how about a small yapping dog?" Merran suggested, shaking in anger. "A mosquito?"

Giving Merran's shoulder a squeeze, Alistair sighed quietly. _Andraste's starched britches. What was I thinking to come here? _"Let's just go, Merran," he told her. _And the sooner the better_. "I don't know why I came, really…"

"I don't know why you came neither!" Goldanna responded with a snarl. "Now push off, the both of yer!"

Bowing stiffly to the woman in the room, Alistair was suddenly overcome by how cramped and filthy Goldanna's tiny home was. Then he noticed the two small children sitting howling in a tin bath nearby, the both of them shivering with cold…_how did I miss that before? _And by a grimy, blackened stove a grubby little girl stood large-eyed and staring at the shouting adults. There was little in the way of furniture or cleanliness. Even the bit of bread on a plate on the lone table by the stove had a brush of green on its surface.

Reaching for Merran with one hand, he tugged her backward, loosening the small coin pouch at his belt with his other hand. He held it out to Goldanna; who took it with a sneer. "This all you have?" she demanded. Jerking her chin at his shiny armour, she added coldly. "Spent all your coin on your fancy armour, have you?"

"Ooh!" Merran tried to tear herself free. "A cockroach at the least! Stomp!"

With a final tug, Alistair closed the door on his sister, staring blindly at the wood and no longer able to think. He felt the touch of Merran's magic again. She was re-disguising him and he didn't care. Families were supposed to accept each other, no matter what. That was what he had believed all this time. Why hadn't it gone the way it should have?

"You should have let me turn her into something _unnatural_," Merran snorted like a bull. She looked up at him, "Are you sure that you…" Her words trailed away at his expression. Under the smudged kohl and pink-blush cheeks his skin was pale and unhappy. Instinctively, she slipped her hand through his; digging into her skirt pocket for the slip of paper Zevran had given her.

"We're supposed to meet the others at this place," she stated, in an attempt to distract Alistair. "After Brother Genitivi's house…" She squinted at the fancy curlicues and elegant wriggles the assassin used as writing_._ It said…_The Potato? Town Peon?_

"The Pearl," Alistair said, with only a brief glance at the piece of paper. "And…you're right," he added in an emotionless voice. "We should go."

"'The Pearl'?" Merran repeated, managing to keep her voice chipper. "Sounds a bit posh…and expensive. I hope Zevran remembered we're on a _budget_ here…" As she spoke she bundled Alistair away from Goldanna's house and the entire, depressing, open-guttered, rat-happy area and so neither Warden noticed a shadow detaching itself from behind a barrel to shamble after the two of them.

-oo-

Sweeping the pile of empty tankards and plates to one end of the table, Zevran unrolled the map. It was a difficult to read, owing to the blood daubed generously across its surface; splattered there during an unpleasant disagreement between Merran who insisted on being allowed to investigate an even more unpleasant smell coming from the rear of Genitivi's apartment and the man impersonating the Scholar's assistant who refused to let her do so. The smell did indeed turn out to be the body of Genitivi's actual assistant, brutally murdered and left to rot where he fell. Where Genitivi was to be found had yet to be discovered.

In their usual efficient manner, Zevran and Leliana had searched through the Chantry scholar's lodgings, investigating every loose board and leaving no hidden trapdoor unsprung. Their labours had been fruitful, turning up a sizeable bundle of Genitivi's research notes, a journal, a couple of interesting and obscure books about dragon cults and this map.

Clutching the edges of the table, Alistair leant over one end, frowning at the notations written in neat, but nevertheless illegible cipher. It was a map of Redcliffe; a place as familiar to him as any in Ferelden, yet the town marked _Haven _he'd never heard of his entire life. Nor had he seen the place on any other maps of Redcliffe. Yet, the document appeared legitimate. He'd been about to comment when Leliana slammed her tankard into the centre of the map, startling them all.

"…'an another thi – _hic_ – thing…" she slurred, burping ale breath into Alistair's face. "If I hav…havoo…have to hear that _berluddy_ dwarf shout 'dwarven arms and armour' one more _berluddy _time – _hic_ - I'm gonna – _urrrrpp_ - give _him _'fine dwarven armour' in a pay…p-_hic_…bit where the sun…where the sun do'n shine…" Another lengthy, un-Chantry-Sister-like burp ended this statement to rival the first. Eyes watering from the fumes, Alistair reeled back, his comment about Haven forgotten.

"Well," Zevran took his place wryly. "It appears our delicate Sister has quite the stomach for drink," Nodding to the five empty tankards lined up by Leliana's elbow he added; "Colour me impressed."

Alistair ignored the assassin, glaring instead at the snifter in Zevran's manicured hands. The elf had opted for the more expensive option of cognac. Despite Zevran's assurance that the premises' 'facilities' were available to them – as thanks for assisting the proprietress with some…rowdy clients – free of charge, he and Merran remained teetotal, choosing lemonade instead of alcoholic beverages as the others had. As Merran mentioned, they were on a budget. The last thing they needed was to be presented with an account they could not pay.

"Perhaps," Zevran suggested as Leliana sprawled across the map, thus obscuring it, "we should put our lovely companion to bed, no?"

"No," Alistair said automatically.

"No?" Zevran asked.

"I mean, yes," _or do I mean 'no'?_ Alistair frowned. Why did Zevran have to end every sentence with a negative? It made no sense. Nor did he approve of the way Zevran leered at Leliana. "I _mean_," Alistair started all over again, "that perhaps…" He cast his gaze about the table and located someone appropriate. "Merran could do it." He had to clear his throat several times before the target of his gaze noticed he'd been looking towards her. "Right?"

Merran stared at him. "What?" Following the direction of Alistair's jerking chin, she noticed Leliana who had by now shifted to slump at her seat; nose balanced on the edge of her tankard. Well…they knew where they were to go next. She supposed the sooner they turned in, the earlier they could start out to find Brother Genitivi.

"Sure," she shrugged. "But before I go, let's get this straight: this is where we're heading tomorrow, right?" She jabbed a finger into the spot marked _Haven. _"It's near enough to Redcliffe Village. We can swing by there and pick up Jowan and Morrigan on our way through."

"Ah ha…" Zevran drawled with accompanying, wiggling eyebrows. "The sultry witch and your handsome mage _friend_."

Merran tossed him a sharp look. "What are you implying?" she enquired frostily.

"Oh, nothing to concern yourself with," Zevran dismissed the subject casually, returning his attention to the map. Seeing as Zevran did not pursue the topic of 'her friend Jowan', Merran merely cocked an eyebrow at him then turned to Leliana, trying to work out how to prise the redhead from the table and tankard.

Grasping one of Leliana's rubbery arms, Merran threw it around her neck, pushing against the table for leverage. Staggering awkwardly from the table; Merran half-dragged Leliana through the mostly-crowded, smoky drinking area of _The Pearl, _mystified why any of her three strapping _male_companions hadn't simply offered to carry Leliana to her room themselves. True, Alistair had given her a lecture about maintaining standards of discretion and propriety while here; to keep to themselves at all times…not even make eye-contact with anyone but _surely_ it would not have been too unseemly if Alistair or Zevran carried Leliana - a friend and companion - to her room? A purely innocent act?

Clearly not.

And Leliana was _heavy_…"Oops!" Merran felt Leliana slip sideways; the two of them colliding into the wall.

"The Pearl!" Leliana snickered under her arm. "Give it a whirl!"

"A whirl?" Merran made a face. Quite honestly, she was still disappointed that a place called a 'brothel' didn't actually have any _broth._ She could certainly have done with something warming like that after the uncomfortable discoveries at Brother Genitivi's home.

Taking a firmer grip on Leliana's arm, Merran had just pushed away from the wall when a dark shape cannoned into them with a piercing shriek. Merran toppled backwards; the sharp, acrid stench of stale sweat and cheap ale assailing her nostrils while claws tore at her face, raking through her hair. Partially trapped beneath her assailant and Leliana's unconscious bulk, Merran struggled to regain her footing, managing only to bring an arm up protectively across her face. The words of a freezing spell rose to her lips, when the weight and the shrieking abruptly disappeared, an angry voice yelling; "I told you, you're not welcome here!"

Merran lowered her arm. The proprietress of _The Pearl; _a normally pleasant-faced older woman by the name of Sanga kept well back from the dishevelled creature huddled on the floor. Two of Sanga's bodyguards stood on either side, disgust clear on their faces and ready to strike again should the creature turn on their employer. Bloodshot eyes regarded Merran with a malevolent spite and hate that shocked the mage speechless. It was…human, she thought; pity overwhelming her at the filthy state of the individual. There was something about the person's skin; mottled and diseased looking; almost like Blight sickness, a miasma of rotting flesh, mould and human waste rolling off her in palpable waves.

Barring blackened, rotting teeth, it hissed, "Where's my money…? You took my money _whore_…! I want my share…" It raised a pitiful face to Sanga. "My share of the money. That's all I wanted…" The…woman paused to cough; a rattling hacking noise that made Merran wince. "We agreed…"

Without warning, she lunged at Merran, "We _agreed_!" she screeched, earning a brutal blow from one of the bodyguards.

Merran immediately scrambled to her feet, pushing at the bodyguard. "Stop!" she pleaded urgently, peppering the woman's face automatically with healing spells where the guard had struck her.

At the use of magic, the woman gave a terrified scream, throwing herself into the wall in an attempt to escape. Finding her passage blocked, she pressed up against the wood, trembling. "Magic…" she quivered in surprised fear. "Where did _you_ learn magic?" Her eyes widened suddenly. "You're that – that…but that's impossible…you can't be…_hers._" She shook her head violently. "We killed you," she declared. "Buried you in the snow…in the dirt…you were supposed to have died…" She pointed a curved, dirt encrusted talon at Merran. "This…_thing_ is something evil," she stated in a hoarse whisper. "I don't know what it is – we tried to kill it. I told Meaire it was a bad idea…"

"Enough!" Sanga commanded impatiently. To her bodyguards she instructed: "Throw her outside, and be done with it."

"No! Wait." Merran stepped once more between the bodyguards and the pathetic, flinching creature, digging into her pockets for her purse.

"I'd advise against giving this poor excuse for a human any money, Grey Warden," Sanga had begun when the woman on the floor gave another screech.

"_Grey __Warden! _One of those again?" A bark of derisive laughter followed. "That was Meaire's idea – thought she could catch a Grey Warden – HA! King's favourites, my _arse_. All _she_ got was a bellyful of some abomination that gave her the Sickness. Eh, but we took the thing and buried it in the ground. Buried it in the snow for the wolves to come eat it…" A triumphant cackle led to another bout of coughing; this time spattering the expensive hall runner with blood. "It's that Chantry Sister isn't it?" the woman stated with widened eyes. "I knew it! She dug you up! I knew we should have taken a shovel to you first!"

Lip curling in disgust, Sanga waved an impatient hand. "For the Maker's sake, take her away!"

"She needs a healer," Merran insisted and as the woman had not taken her purse, she instead extended it to one of the bodyguards. "Please, take her to the Chantry at least. She can find a proper Healer there."

"Warden," Sanga said sternly. "What this woman has no Healer can cure."

"But…"

Sanga eyed the leather pouch a moment more, pushing it back towards Merran firmly. With a sigh dripping in lost profit, the owner of _The Pearl _added; "Keep your money Warden." She turned to one of the guards, bestowing him with a _look _while continuing to reassure the young Grey Warden_. _"This…woman will be taken to the Chantry. You have my word on it."

Merran nodded. "Thank you," she said, watching the guards haul the woman from the hall. When the three had disappeared from sight she half-turned towards Sanga. "It seemed as though you knew her."

"Knew?" Sanga snorted derisively. "Aye. You could say that." Jerking her head towards the exit where the woman had been taken she added. "Was one of my girls when I first started out; she and her sister. Weren't careful that one. Left when she fell with child though I heard she'd passed on – the sister that is. Next thing I know the other one…" she pointed towards the exit, "came back, asking for her 'share of money'." Sanga shook her head. "I paid my girls on time. Point of pride it was. Still is. Don't know what she meant, but when she started asking for her dead sister, I knew the Maker'd taken her mind…Thought I'd seen the last of her to be honest."

Merran grimaced, acknowledging the hint that it had been _she _who'd caused this trouble and the sooner she and her companions left _The Pearl _perhaps, the better. As if on cue, Leliana groaned softly. Sanga rolled her eyes and turned away, while Merran returned to her original task; returning Leliana to their rooms…except she found Alistair instead relieving her of that task; scooping the still-sleeping redhead in one swift movement and striding to their designated room. Merran followed quickly, opening the door for him and turning down the coverlet so Alistair could place Leliana on the bed. After a short while Merran retrieved the chamber pot from under the bed, placing it close by - just in case.

As Alistair pulled the covers up over their sleeping companion, Merran rolled her eyes. It seemed to her Alistair still hadn't quite gotten over his crush on the pretty Sister after all…She climbed onto the bed herself. Sitting cross-legged, she regarded Leliana with a small smile.

"Thank you Alistair," she told her fellow Grey Warden. "I think Leli will be alright now." Worried about Alistair's unhappy expression she heaved a melodramatic sigh. "This has been quite a day, hasn't it?" First Goldanna's rejection, then finding Assistant Weylon's body…and all the while the darkspawn were still out there. It can't be easy on Alistair…she extended a hand, giving his arm an encouraging squeeze.

His muscles stiffened under her hand, head bowing. "Merran, are you…?"

"Am I what?" she asked, wondering how upset he could be if he found he couldn't complete his sentence. "It'll be fine, Alistair. You'll be fine."

With one hand still clutching the coverlet, Alistair gritted his teeth. Bringing his head up, he stared very hard at Merran Amell; fellow Grey Warden and Mage. It all seemed to fit. Duncan's story about his youthful encounter with a lady of ill-repute; how Merran had been delivered as an infant to the Circle by a Chantry Sister…That…that thing who thought Merran looked enough like its dead sister to think that she was…Finding out that what could very well have been her only relatives attempting to murder her as a babe…_Despite all that she's worried about _me_? Maker, in comparison, my money-grasping harridan of a half-sister is a paragon of familial affection…_

"Are…_you_ alright?" he managed finally.

Merran blinked at him. _Oh…I see…_she thought. Leaning forward, she extended a finger and poked the end of his Theirin nose. "Do you _know_ what I am?" she asked randomly.

Before he could ask her whether this was a trick question, she continued. "I," she pointed to herself next, "am the luckiest person in Ferelden."

"_Lucky_?" Alistair repeated.

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "Lucky. Me. And do you know why?" Placing a hand over her heart, her smile widened. "I was granted a _life,_" she told him. "And regardless _who_ gave that life to me I got to choose how to live that life."

"But, you're a mage," he pointed out automatically, "you didn't get a choice in that."

"No I didn't, that is true," Merran conceded with a chuckle, "_but_ I did get to choose what to do with the gift of magic; was given the choice to use it to do some good in this world and look at us! We're _Grey Wardens! _That's the best part of all. And even if we won't ever get to ride a Griffon, you think about that and tell me why being me isn't completely _awesome._" Ducking her head, Merran gave a rather self-conscious giggle. "Urgh, you know that sounded so much better in my head."

Alistair continued to stare at Merran, finding he could do little else. Her eyes twinkled at him and he knew; just _knew _that she truly believed what she had just told him. All the complaining he'd done about being the last Grey Wardens; about Duncan's death and the almost impossible task ahead of them; his sister; the Arl's sickness…small beans...They had a duty and she would do that duty with a smile on her face and believing with her every fibre in _being_ a Grey Warden.

And…in him.

Without realising it, Alistair had extended his hand towards Merran's shoulder; the urge to simply hold her and promise her that she need not do this on her own overwhelming…when Leliana jerked upright, cheeks bulging.

Merran dove across his lap, almost knocking him from the bed, positioning the chamber pot to catch the contents of Leliana's stomach just in time.

"Ooh, carrots…" Merran murmured interestedly as the stomach-churning odour of bile filled the room. "I don't remember Leliana eating carrots, do you?"

Hastily standing, Alistair began backing out of the room.

"Oh…ew…I think we're going to need another chamber pot…" She looked up at him hopefully. "Do you think you could…?" she asked and with a nod, Alistair fled. He returned a few moments later with a large washing pail, handing it over with his spare hand clamped firmly over his nose, awed and amazed by Merran's capacity to _be __amused _over the quantity and quality of Leliana's technicolour yawns…his eyes unable to leave his fellow Warden good-naturedly continuing to tend to their very ill companion.

And above it all, Alistair couldn't help but think that for all Merran's terrifying _weirdness _and uncanny ability to transform their enemies into flora and fauna, his fellow Grey Warden was, well…all kinds of awesome herself.

-oo-

"The Dwarves and Orzammar are closer, I suppose…" Merran commented thoughtfully, following in the wake of Bodahn's cart. The merchant and his son had very kindly agreed to continue travelling with them at least until Redcliffe Village; a relief for those who'd gotten used to simple luxuries like regular supplies, tents and not having to traverse the length and breadth of Ferelden on foot. "But how are we ever to find the Darling elves?"

"Dalish," Wynne corrected her absentmindedly, engrossed in the large, black-bound grimoire Zevran had retrieved from the Circle Tower. The Senior Enchanter had been studying it on the way back to Redcliffe. It was a book of very ancient magic and from what she could discern, outlined a rather disturbing process to enable _living_ possession…or at least she would be able to translate the grimoire fully if she didn't keep getting distracted by the other books Zevran had found for her. Being torn between serious, academic pursuit and the desperate romance between one Lady Loria and the devilishly rakish Arl of Redfern was an inconvenience indeed.

"Yes, _exactly!_" Merran exclaimed (and here Wynne pushed the novel aside with grim determination). "How are we even going to find them if they're moving about?" the little mage asked. "We could end up pursuing them and never finding them…Like a dog chasing its tail."

"Then we shall have to cut the tail off," Sten pronounced in his usual stentorian way, evoking a worried whine from Cullen who then sat very firmly on her own stubby tail. Just in case.

"Steeeeeeen…" Merran whined too. "We _can't _fight the Blight without the Dallying Elves!"

"Dalish," Wynne reminded Merran again.

Merran, for once appeared to notice the correction. She blinked. "Delish?"

"Dalish."

"Are you _sure_?" Merran frowned.

"Quite sure," Wynne told her with pursed lips. Indicating the open spellbook on her lap she asked; "What do you intend to do with this collection of spells?"

"Give it to Morrigan," Merran shrugged. "It was her mother's to begin with."

Wynne harrumphed. It wasn't what she would have suggested. This book should not have left the Tower though she was looking forward to meeting this…Morrigan. As reluctant as she was to return the book, meeting with the Wilds Apostate would prove valuable for that little 'task' Irving had set for her.

And…the sooner she passed it on to someone else, the sooner she could get back to _Lothering Heights_.

"We still have to find Andraste's ashes," Alistair reminded them, as he retrieved a couple of apples from Bodahn's cart, handing one automatically to Merran. "_And _return them to Arl Eamon in time."

"Are you resolved to chasing after rainbows then?" Sten asked sarcastically.

"Don't be silly, Sten," Merran said, taking a dainty bite from her apple. "Rainbows are visions..."

"And only illusions," Sten intoned emotionlessly. "That is what I mean."

"Look," Alistair insisted stubbornly. "We _need _the Arl's influence in the Landsmeet to stop Loghain from doing more damage than he already has. And owning one of the largest Arlings in Ferelden, he's a natural choice to lead the country out of this mess. No…" he shook his head firmly. "If anyone can unite Ferelden in a single cause to defeat the Blight, it'll be the Arl."

"There's always _King _Alistair_…_" Leliana said teasingly. "Defender of Man."

"Oh, no…" Alistair waved his apple, backing away. "Defender. Dee. Fend. Er. _Not _leader," he pointed out. "There's a big difference. No one dies, no one gets lost and I get to keep my pants on. _Especially _keep my pants on."

"Oh…I don't know," Leliana continued to tease. "I can think of at least _one_ person who would _love _to see you without your pants on, am I right?" She cast a pointed look towards Merran; who had by now moved on beside Bodahn's cart. By her reddened cheeks, it was clear she knew exactly to whom Leliana referred.

Head whipping around, Merran favoured her fellow Grey Warden with a warning glare. "Alistair should _definitely _keep his pants _on!_"

She gave her head another shake; Leliana's mention of pantless Alistair had conjured Zevran's terrible Fade Dream into her head. She shuddered, wondering what would be so wonderful about Alistair partially clothed…True, he was a handsome man. That went without saying. He would be fit too, with all the running about with his sword after darkspawn. _Huh, and he'd probably have a very funny tan line which would be interesting to…bad Merran! Very bad! _Wasn't Alistair still trying to woo Leliana? That meant he was out of bounds, though…if Leliana was trying to fob poor Alistair on _her_, then clearly she hadn't told Alistair about her crush on Morrigan, who thank goodness did not seem to be interested in anyone. Yet. It was still early days and there was still Sten, whom according to Wynne's trashy novels was the strong and silent type that women all over went for.

And…Maker, there was Zevran who wanted everyone – even Wynne – which was a thought too disturbing to contemplate. And…Alistair was family. It would certainly explain the rush of affection she experienced whenever he was about or when she thought of him. She wanted to give him a great big hug now. All of them. Everyone in her party was now firmly entrenched in her affections. _When did I become so attached to these people…_she wondered?

_And when – and how – am I going to tell them…_she also wondered with a sharp pang of sadness_?_ _About_…A voice called out to them from afar; a familiar, friendly voice that had Merran blinking into the distance; her feet gathering speed as she broke into a sprint.

"Jowan!" Merran squealed in sheer joy, hurtling into his outstretched arms.

When her old Tower friend had finished twirling her around; the two of them laughing in glee, he wiped a hand across his forehead. "Thank the powers that be you're alright," he told Merran. "You were taking so long I thought you'd all been arrested and thrown into Fort Drakon – or worse." His expression turning grim, he added. "What happened at the Tower? We've been hearing stories and not good ones either."

"What about the Arl?" Alistair asked, unable to stop himself from placing a possessive hand on Merran's shoulder.

"Still alive," Jowan informed them. "Though his unconscious state continues. Despite it people are coming back to Redcliffe village. And Bann Teagan has been preparing; he and Ser Perth have been training all able bodied folk to fight." Grinning down at Merran, he added; "even me."

"Well, I'm just glad that your head hasn't been cleaved from your neck by some overenthusiastic Templar!" Merran laughed. "I missed you!"

"I missed you too," Jowan ruffled her hair. "And I have something for you...a present…of sorts…"

Taking Merran's hand, Jowan led her down the dusty road, then onto a side path to the camp he and Morrigan had set up above Redcliffe village. In the camp there was what appeared to be a tall pile of…stone arranged to look like…If it was a statue, it had yet to be finished; crudely fashioned to look human, but set with semi-precious gem stones and glowing runes…

"What in Thedas_…?_" Merran began when it _blinked_ at her, regarding her with an expression of stony dislike and disapproval. "Jowan," Merran began again, when the stone statue exhaled a long-suffering sigh.

"Oh _wonderful__,_"it stated, eyeing the staff attached to Merran's back with open disgust. "_Another_ mage…"

-oo-


	22. The Prince and the Party Pooper

A/N: A couple of warnings – this chapter contains the death of a friendly NPC, some nastiness…and humbugs…

-oo-

**Chapter 22 – The Prince and the Party Pooper**

Blood pooled around her feet; trickling a line of red down the debris-littered street. Above, the sky lay like a blackened funeral shroud over the tainted landscape, obscured periodically by thick drifts of greasy smoke. She watched through narrowed eyes as a few dismembered bodies of the vanquished were raised at the town gates; her fellow darkspawn cheering in guttural hoots and grunts. A gurgle of victory rising in her own throat, she turned, fist raised in triumph; even while her eyes scanned the collected ruin of smouldering buildings, to the last stronghold the humans stubbornly held.

They'd collected a number of females already but she could smell more of them in that large building; the one that hurt her eyes to look at. The ogres were already working on the heavy wooden doors with hurled boulders and fire; a magic-user at the ready. All they needed was the tiniest gap for his spells; stinging swarms of poisonous insects, a death curse or two…She passed under the broken gate arch in time to hear the sound of wood splintering. The doors had given way – finally! - humans pouring out between the broken planks. Armoured humans, unlike the ones they had encountered thus far. The last pocket of defiance was it? It didn't matter. Defiant or compliant; they were just meat to feed the thousands in the end.

Her path ended at the Emissary's side; to watch the demise of these pathetic, stinking creatures; when her thoughts took an unexpected turn. It was…_odd. _This place seemed familiar somehow; something about the shape of the stones; the height of the doors…and that statue of the human female overlooking the square…She gave her head a brisk shake, focussing on the task at hand.

One human…was still alive and still resisting.

With a cackle, the Emissary stepped forward, slivers of flame erupting about his talons when the armoured human lunged towards him. The air sparked around the Emissary and the ball of fire abruptly vanished before the Emissary stiffened with a cry of agony then crumpled, dead.

_Impossible, _her mind screamed_! _

The death of the only magic-user in their group enraged her. She and the other darkspawn surged upon that lone, armoured figure and his broadsword. In a short space of time, despite dead and dying darkspawn lying at his feet, blood spurted from his own wounds, his continuing state of existence an irritation to her.

_Enough of this! _She advanced on the human…_I must have that armour! _Good, thick armour; so shiny like Deep Roads rock; and gold in the shape of a spinning, flaming wheel. Another Genlock charged the human warrior causing him to stumble at last. Taking advantage of the lapse in the warrior's defences she raised her halberd and struck. The warrior's arm shattered under the blow. His armour rent, his sword flew from his hands. Another cracking blow brought the soldier to his knees, purple tunic wet with blood. Merran raised her free hand, gesturing for the others to stand back. This one was _hers _to dispose of.

As she raised her weapon again above her head, an unbidden spark of recognition startled her. _I know those eyes…_

"The Maker curse you…" the warrior growled at her; his name oozing insistently into her mind, even as the blade of her halberd crashed into the side of his head, separating it from his shoulders.

…_Ser Bryant…_

"Oh jolly good Bugglesworth! One for the bunny and two for the road…!"

Merran jerked awake, her heart pounding and her breath catching in her parched throat. Trembling upright, she drew her knees tightly to her chest, curling her head under her arms until her breath and the beat of heart began to slow. Her head ached from unshed tears and her arms stung where her nails had dug into her flesh but she cared little. It was only until her limbs began to shake more from the cold of the night air and not the lingering after-effects of her dream that she felt safe enough to uncurl.

Another muttered, unintelligible mumble and Jowan rolled over in his bedroll beside her, his arm slapping into her side as he turned. Merran felt a sudden, urgent need to be anywhere but _here_ and she stood shakily to her feet, her head spinning.

Tugging her blanket after her, Merran wrapped it about her shoulders in her escape from the tent she shared with Jowan; contact with the icy mountain air causing her to shiver even more violently. Her feet carried her through the dark, stumbling from rock to tree, her thoughts jumbled and panicked. Was she a danger to her companions in this state? Could she hurt them? Kill them…? In her distress she missed the dark shape in her path until she had collided with it; an involuntary squeak of terror escaping her before she could clamp a hand over her mouth and if not for the strong hands that grasped her shoulders and the familiar zing at the base of her ears, the one spell for death magic she knew would have also escaped her lips.

Her legs failed her then, her knees inexplicably turning the consistency of jelly. Again, if not for Alistair's hold on her, she would have fallen; his warmth a solid anchor in the chilly darkness and his arms forming a reassuring cage about her trembling body.

The dying screams from her darkspawn dream still ringing in her ears and feeding her distress, Merran balled her fists, fighting for self control. When she spoke her voice came in breathless gasps.

"_Lothering…_" Head burrowing into his chest, her tears soaked his woollen shirt. "Lothering has fallen…to. To the dark ones."

"I know," he said quietly, arms tightening.

"And I killed him," Merran continued in a whimper, the sound of her heart breaking clear in her voice. "I _killed_ Ser Bryant…He was so kind to us – and I killed him…"

When Alistair responded, his voice was unexpectedly cold. "You didn't kill him," he stated. "The _darkspawn_ did. And it's all the more reason to _wipe_ them off the face of Thedas."

_The darkspawn…_She knew it, but it didn't make her feel better. She had been in the darkspawn's head. It had been her hand that had raised the weapon; Ser Bryant's blood hot on _her _skin. How long she stood crying into Alistair's shirt Merran did not know. She couldn't seem to stop even while she told herself she had no right to be upset. She shivered again, felt Alistair rearrange the blanket about them both. _Maker, _she realised, _he must be freezing cold out here too. _Yet she had no desire to detach herself and return to her tent. His heartbeat; thumping steadily and softly under her cheek; his hand stroking a comforting rhythm on her back…everything about her fellow Grey Warden pulled her steadily back to herself. Merran focussed on the feel of him, so…_human_ and real.

A stiff breeze rustled the forest above and Merran untangled her arms to wrap them about Alistair's waist, burrowing her cheek into his shirt.

"Merran…"

"How do you know?" she whispered, lifting her face slightly apart from chest.

Without a single beat, he replied; "I was the _Emissary_."

The unexpectedly sour tone of his voice brought the ghost of a smile to Merran's lips…_so Alistair, __she thought, her _smile fading as Ser Bryant's final moments slipped cruelly back into her thoughts. What had Alistair and Gareth said? _Grey Wardens tapped __into the group mind __of the darkspawn horde._ Well, there had been little of the 'group' about that dream and more about the _individual_. Shaking her head, she took another uncertain breath and burrowed even deeper into Alistair's embrace. _Sometimes, __she thought,__ being a Grey Warden really sucked…_Except – the small, practical voice in the back of her head reminded her - for the perk of having a thoroughly huggable fellow Warden.

She supposed she could return to the tent and snuggle up to Jowan, but Jowan thrashed about like a windmill in a gale _and_ he drooled. He'd be warm enough she supposed, but Jowan was all…angles and sharp edges. Alistair was warm and _not_ like hugging an anatomy skeleton. The only angles to be found on her fellow Grey Warden was in the cut of his shoulders and the planes of his face. The man had a chin you could slice cheese with. Very handy to have around when one was peckish. But Merran – thankfully – didn't have to hug his chin. She got to hold the rest of him. There was a spot where her head seemed to fit perfectly; finding in fact, that she was loath to let go. Outside of this warm, cosy circle was the cold mountain air and dealing with the darkspawn nightmare by herself, even if she must feel like a soggy tea bag.

Just as the thought entered her mind, Merran felt Alistair shift his feet. He'd ceased stroking her back and shoulders in that lovely way. Any moment now he was sure to tell her she was overreacting and had better get used to the nightmares. And, seeing it was Alistair too, no doubt a lecture about men and women maintaining a _proper _distance from each other as well. Possibly she was putting his squeaky clean reputation at risk or similar.

Except that Merran didn't much care if her holding on to him for dear life wasn't _proper._ Today had not been easy. They now had the ashes for the Arl of Redcliffe, but it had taken three spare shirts, nearly freezing to death, being almost hacked to pieces by crazed cultists, immersed in dragonling manure and then – to add insult to injury – had her braids and eyebrows burned off by a _High Dragon_ of all things. Having survived all the above, her motives for joining the Grey Wardens had been called into question by some kind of ghostly soldier, abused by a roomful of _more _ghosts who wanted to play some kind of riddle game, been forced to fight an invisible party of doppelgangers and almost fell into a bottomless chasm. And quite frankly, having been forced to walk buck-naked through a wall of flames in the presence of the Senior Enchanter (who by the way had been in a similar state of 'undress'), had been the icing on the cake. How she was going to look Wynne in the eye ever again she did not know.

Despite the trials and the dangers, they had done it. They'd found the famed, lost Ashes of Andraste but, although Merran was the first to admit she was looking forward to returning to an altitude that allowed her to breathe more easily, she was not looking forward to going back to Redcliffe. If the ashes worked as well as the legends said it would, there would have to be some explaining to do about the Arlessa…

Merran gave an internal shake of her head. Her brain was taking her down depressing paths she didn't need to travel. Who knew when Alistair would allow her to use him as her own personal hot brick again? She was going to enjoy this – and his company – for as long as she could. And…the thought of returning to camp; to her bed and more nightmares filled her with so much dread, she hunted desperately about for a distraction…"Alistair," she began, her thoughts defaulting to the _one _thing.

"Yes sw – uh - _Merran_?" he stammered.

Merran lifted her head. "Hungry?" she asked. His arms tightened or twitched, Merran wasn't sure. High up above the top of her head his expression remained in shadow. It did seem it was taking him a while to consider her proposal and that was the strangest thing. Alistair _never _turned down the prospect of a snack.

"_Ravenous,_" he replied after several heartbeats more. Then to Merran's great disappointment, he stepped away, putting some distance between them. Even though she could still feel the heat radiating from his body, Merran felt bereft.

"You…" he began hopefully, "wouldn't be able to make those, uh, t-toasty cheesy things, would you?"

She looked upwards; his halting tone suggesting he had no desire to return to camp either and was quite happy to play along. He was the older Grey Warden. What must _his_ nightmares be like? "You have cheese?" she asked. Sooner or later they would have to return to camp; to reality. To more battles. More darkspawn. More death. Now, however…

"And bread," Alistair confirmed, a somewhat forced half-smile crooking the corner of his mouth. "You supply the meltiness and we'll be all set."

Finding she had to forcibly uncurl her fists by her sides once more, Merran took a step back. Sooner or later_…Always_, sooner or later. "One meltiness coming right up!" she said brightly and turned away.

-oo-

The trip back to the valley was uneventful; everyone looking forward to the comforts Bodahn and Sandal's company would provide. Merran especially was looking forward to seeing Cullen again; and Sten had remained behind to keep the mabari company Not that the qunari had any desire to engage in what he termed 'the fruitless pursuit of the remains of a long-dead priestess'. He and Alistair had nearly come to blows over the decision to search for Andraste's Ashes so perhaps it was just as well Sten had stayed behind.

The lack of excitement gave Merran time to think how to approach the Arl – if the Ashes revived him, that is. She was fully resigned to a bollocking for allowing the Arlessa to perish, even if it had been Isolde's decision in the end. Leliana and Zevran took a different view, suggesting she remain in camp while the others went to deliver the ashes. Even Wynne was insistent she remain 'out of view'. Slightly offended, Merran twirled her moustache and made a point of placing herself at the back of the group, eyeing their backs sourly as they marched down the mountain path.

The issue, it appeared, was not because her fellow travellers wanted to spare her the agony of facing the Arl with the news of the Arlessa's demise. Oh no. The _issue _it seemed was about attempting to regrow her scorched hair using _magic_.

Really. Had it been her fault she'd 'missed'?

It had been Wynne who'd confiscated her hand mirror for a start. They'd had to travel lightly, she'd been told. There would be no time or place for primping and vanity. Merran had been forced to use her reflection in a mountain stream _and_ Alistair had to shoulder some of the blame. She'd just released her spell when he'd called to her suddenly and urgently. Of _course_ she'd turned and zapped the wrong part of her head with the regrowth spell!

"You know Mer-Mer…" Merran found Leliana falling back beside her. "I can obtain some beeswax in Redcliffe Village. If we shave off-"

"You know what?" Merran interrupted, feeling extremely contrary. "What I need is beading. Maybe some ribbon. Frilly ribbon."

"Mer-Mer!" Leliana exclaimed, shocked by the suggestion. "You can't _possibly_ be considering keeping that beard!"

"Well, my chin _is_ nice and warm, I don't mind saying," Merran sniffed, sliding a look towards Leliana that attempted to convey she would prefer her friend procure some of that waxy stuff for making facial hair stiff like cardboard. It would certainly fix the problem of food-filtering the beard performed for her, as she'd become rather fond of the unidentifiable lumps Alistair put in his stews. Whatever detritus embedded itself in her luxuriant facial growth tended to go…_off_ in a remarkably short space of time and a girl with her busy itinerary simply did not have the luxury of a regular beard clean even if the smell was worse than Alistair after one of his all-night cheese binges.

"We can find you a nice scarf…" Leliana suggested, sounding desperate.

In truth, Merran didn't like the beard. It itched, smelled and harboured wildlife, but she felt there was a principle to uphold here. "It won't be the same," Merran sniffed again, angling her nose loftily. The Senior Enchanter had refused to help her. The older mage would take no part in assisting what she deemed an exercise in vanity and an abuse of perfectly good magic.

"Huh…" Merran muttered under her breath. "Easy for someone with _eyebrows _to say…" _Speaking of__…_"I wonder whether I should bead my eyebrows as well…"

"I offered to trim and pluck them," Leliana reminded her stubbornly. "I could shape them for you. It won't take a minute, I promise!"

"You don't like what I've done to my hair?" Merran pouted, fingering the braids she'd looped around her ears from above her eyes. It had seemed as good a way as any to keep them out of the way so she could see. As long as she didn't turn her head too fast – she'd already had _words _with Zevran about that…trying to surprise her when she least expected it – it was quite comfortable and really, why weren't her companions grateful the spell had excluded the hairs inside her nose? Especially since she was pretty sure she'd had a cold coming on…

While Leliana continued to pepper Merran with hair removal suggestions, Jowan caught up to Alistair who'd placed himself far at the head the head of the party...and furthest from Merran. It was an arrangement that suited Merran fine. Quite apart from the fact that the almost-Templar had refused to acknowledge his part in the hair-growing incident, he'd been rather…strange recently. Normally a bit of a Senior Enchanter's boy anyway, Alistair had taken to being more than usually attentive to Wynne; agreeing sycophantically with the Senior Enchanter about Merran's proposed misuse of magic for instance. And that, despite what Merran remembered as a rather nice moment – for a change! – between the two of them. He was avoiding her.

As for Alistair, his strategy to remain on the side of the one person in their group Merran held with some kind of authority was wise in his opinion. The Senior Enchanter held no fears of impending froghood for standing up to the little mage and the spell accident reminded him how dangerous Merran was. That…incident in the Frostbacks could not happen again. It didn't matter how soft Merran was; or nice her hair smelled under his chin – vanilla and spices and sunshine – or (damn it all) that he hadn't wanted to let her go. Oh no, that was dangerous thinking. Dangerous and terrifying and the fastest way to sliminess and an exclusively insectivorous diet.

What if that hair spell had hit him for instance? He'd been in range. He'd spent months training his hair to sit in this particular shape. That spell would have ruined it. Ruined it! Did he care how cuddly she was? Nuh uh. And he was going to completely ignore the rather nice way the two of them had seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle. It was nothing to do with him. That fluttery feeling in his stomach when he looked at her? He'd wager she'd poisoned that tasty, melty cheesy toastie and now he was sick. He was coming down with something. That was it. It would certainly explain why he felt all hot and sweaty when that awful, dangerous mage came within spitting distance.

"_Dangerous_ mage…" _Got to keep my distance…_

"So let me ask you this…" When Jowan's voice appeared out of nowhere, Alistair jumped, startled into an unmanly squeak. He tossed a glare at Jowan, but as Jowan's attention was on Merran and Leliana still arguing at the back of the group, it was wasted.

"What are your intentions?" Jowan added, startling Alistair again.

"What?" Alistair tried his glare again. It was met with one equally aggressive. "Have you not been paying attention?" Alistair hissed. "I hope I don't have to repeat myself." Counting them off on his fingers, he said; "Revive the Arl, muster the Dwarves, find the Elves and challenge the Archdemon. Simple really."

"I _mean _with Merran," Jowan's brows lowered further. "I saw the two of you. _Last _night."

"Last…?" Alistair blinked, ignoring the sudden rush of heat up his neck to his cheeks. Fixing his gaze straight ahead, he concentrated on _snow…and ice. _Very cold ice. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Really?" Jowan's tone implied he believed nothing Alistair said. "Because it looked to _me _like the two of you were…canoodling."

"Ca…noo…Ugh! She was _upset_," Alistair attempted to explain. "I was _comforting _her, if you really must know. She's my fellow Warden we…" His voice trailed off as Jowan's _insinuation_ hit him with a smelly wet fish. Should he really have to explain himself? Really? And what was Jowan to Merran anyway that he'd feel the need for the Tevinter Inquisition? _Oh ho! _Alistair thought. _I get it…_

"I get it. You're jealous," Alistair stated. "Jealous that Merran came to _me _and not you. Oh, am I getting in between you two? Is that it? It is, isn't it?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous" Jowan snapped irritably. Staring beadily at the Grey Warden, Jowan curled his lip. "Being 'jealous' would imply that you have something that _I _wanted."

Alistair stumbled, flinching visibly. _Ouch. _

"And there's nothing _you_ have that I could possibly want," Jowan added, causing Alistair to wince even more deeply.

_Double-ouch…!_

"Anyway," Jowan said after a few boulders had passed by. "I just wan…_need _to know. She's my _friend, the closest I have to a sister__._ I care about her. Naturally. And _naturally_, I care that someone might be leading her down the garden path. Merran's not like that. She doesn't…nor is she like other mages. I mean she's-"

"Peh, you can say that again…" Alistair snorted. "As for 'leading her down the garden path'," he air-quoted. "I…" _Do I intend to lead her anywhere? Besides to battle with the Archdemon? Oh for the love of…! _"No. As it happens. I'm not," he stated. "In any case," Alistair added. "Merran's the one in charg…And I'm just follow…Except for now," he pointed out. "Because she's at the back of the group – coincidentally - and I'm in the front and anyway…No. Just. No. Absolutely not. She's my fellow Grey Warden," he paraphrased. "Practically my _sister._"

Jowan made a noise deep in his throat like a dromedary attempting to digest a house brick. "Well she's been acting strange. Stranger than usual," he added a hasty qualifier, forehead furrowing. "She's been using that weird magic hasn't she?" he asked. "Again?"

Alistair's eyebrows crooked upwards. Wasn't everything that Merran did weird? How long had Jowan known Merran and still he hadn't noticed?

"How much do you know about magic?"

Jowan's question was unexpected. Or at the very least, slightly out of the blue. When Alistair didn't answer – being too befuddled to do so – Jowan struck the air with a finger. "Never mind. I'll give you the short version. Magic, as taught by the Circle of Mages," the slender mage continued in a lecturing tone, "is divided into four schools: Entropy, Primal, Spirit and…Forbidden. That's Blood Magic, in case you don't know." He cast a look over his shoulder, calculating the distance between himself and the topic of his discussion. He lowered his voice anyway. "Merran's magic doesn't fall into any of these categories. What she does is…well transformation – shape-changing – it's a form of magic that's not even taught in the Circle because no one knows _how._"

"Except Morrigan," Alistair pointed out. "She learned it from her bat-crazy old apostate of a mother."

"Morrigan describes Transformative magic as being ancient," Jowan persisted. "And neither Morrigan nor her mother ever trained in the Circle as you've very kindly reminded me. _Morrigan _learned her magic from a demon-possessed immortal. Where did Merran's ability – and knowledge – come from?"

Taken aback – not just from what Jowan was implying_, _but that he hadn't drawn the same conclusion himself – Alistair stared straight ahead, his expression mirroring the mage's beside him. Then he thought…It concerned him that Jowan, someone who claimed to be Merran's close friend, could think this way. _Fade_, he and the weird little mage disliked each other on sight and even _he_ didn't think what Jowan was thinking. Merran _was_ weird_,_ Alistair scowled, but not malicious. Never mean to anyone (excluding himself and if he was being honest, deservedly so), never cruel. Merran tried her best always – _always _– to be better to be others around her than she was to herself.

Jowan's words were…disquieting, to say the least. _He_ was the Templar here, not Jowan. Well, almost a Templar. And he was suggesting Merran was…possessed? In thrall to a demon?

"Even Morrigan is at a loss when it comes to explaining Merran's magic," Jowan sighed. "Which leads me to the conclusion Wynne was sent with us for the sole purpose of spying on Merran," he added with a distasteful twist of his mouth. "As if she might be a _danger_ to anyone. Well she's not," Jowan added fiercely. "Not in the least. Merran's always been a bit of an experiment, but there's not an ounce of spite in her. It's mystifying…why Merran of all people was allowed to become a Warden. I would have thought the First Enchanter wouldn't let her out of his sight."

_Ah. _Alistair kept his gaze fixed ahead. So Jowan hadn't actually been implying that Merran was dangerous at all but…hadn't he just said – thought - what Jowan hadn't? Which confused him even more. _I'm beginning to wonder whether I know if I'm coming or going._

Nor did Jowan know that Merran had been tainted most of her life. Which begged the question; did the Taint have anything to do with the way Merran's magic manifested itself? If no one claimed to know anything about Merran's magic, how _did _she know how to do it? Did he really want to know?

Alistair was trying to decide when a blood-curdling screech rent the air. Coming to a dead stop, he swivelled, scanning the surrounding forest for the origin of the noise. A darkspawn attack? Shrieks perhaps? Skin prickling under his tunic, Alistair had just moved to draw his sword when a living nightmare came hurtling through the trees towards him. Her feet smashed into his chest, knocking him backwards. After the stars had cleared, Alistair blinked into terrifyingly familiar green eyes and a pale, freckled face framed by a generous curtain of cherry red hair.

"_Ali-bear!_" the vision squealed. Seizing his mouth, Ranie Gilmore assaulted him with a passionate kiss that had a number of party members gasping in surprise. Except Leliana, who seized a hank of Ranie's hair in an attempt to drag her off the prone Grey Warden.

"Hands off, demon-child!" Leliana snapped; Ranie dancing nimbly out of the Chantry Sister's reach.

"Just try and catch me, old woman!" Ranie sang mockingly.

Unfazed by the challenge, Leliana pounced, wrapping an arm around Ranie's neck in a strangle hold. As the two redheads tangled down the hill, Jowan's jaw snapped shut.

"Well," he murmured, angling his head for a better view. "All they need is a pen of mud and we'd be pretty much set."

"I like how you think," Zevran purred, stroking his chin while he two watched the dust and red hair fly. "While we are at it, would you be willing to enter into a friendly wager?"

"Hm, well normally I wouldn't call myself a betting man," Jowan chuckled, "But under the circumstances-"

"Oh for the Maker's…urgh!" Mage and Assassin found a small bearded mage pushing between them, lips curling under her shaggy beard. "Men!" she growled as she went past, a spear of lightning coming to shape between her hands for the two brawling females. "Absolutely no sense of decorum!"

-oo-

They were here. Days of trekking through snow, climbing mountains, sifting through ancient ruins…and then the long journey back…and now, crowding into the Arl's personal quarters; three mages, a qunari, an assassin elf, a lay sister of the Chantry, two tall armoured men, a small boy playing Knights and Darkspawn, a damp mabari and a sarcastic golem who refused to be used as a stone seat. The only ones not present were Jowan and Ranunculus Gilmore. Jowan because of his part in the poisoning of the Arl and Ranie because the 'old, sleeping greybeard was kinda creepy'.

The solemn Circle mage chanting in monotone above the Arl's head sketched runes in increasing complexity in the air. Merran frowned, trying to make them out. Something about…chickens, was it? No, daisies. Wait it was…bending closer, she could hear the frustration in the mage's voice. The Arl remained in his unconscious state, even while the Circle Mage recited a very effective incantation for a laxative in old Tevinter. Merran raised her eyebrows. _Well if _that _doesn't wake him up, I don't know what will._

Still nothing happened. With a grunt, the mage continued, reciting a limerick in Avvar about a cow, a ferret and a bored Lady of leisure, earning him a very sharp look from Wynne. Unconcerned, the mage curled his lip and muttered; "_Hocus pocus!__" _directly at the Senior Enchanter. There was a stir from the bed and a deep groan. Those immediately standing by the Arl's bed jumped when Arl Eamon Guerrin sat up suddenly wide-awake.

"Makers breath!" he exclaimed. "Someone hand me a chamber pot! Quickly!"

An hour later, after the Arl had completed his urgent ablutions and the room had been aired out – thankfully - the Grey Warden party were admitted back into the room. The old noble was dressed and seated at a small round table the servants had set up for him, chewing enthusiastically on a leg of pork.

"My word," he said as the group entered one by one. "So many of you! I'm afraid there won't be enough sandwiches for everyone. Ate 'em all."

"We're not here for sandwiches, brother," Bann Teagan informed the Arl with a grimace.

"Well thank the Maker for that!" Arl Eamon wiggled an authoritative finger in the air. "Ate 'em all…I say, did I just say that? Am I repeating myself?" Picking up a leg of chicken, he pointed it at the younger Guerrin. "Where's Isolde by the by? Busy shopping eh? Woman'll bankrupt me, mark my words! How anyone can have that many pairs of shoes, with only one pair of feet to put 'em on, I'll never know."

"I'm afraid," Teagan began with obvious reluctance. "That there is a great deal to discuss with you. Dear brother." Taking a deep breath, the Bann tossed a look towards Merran – who winced – before he spoke. "Isolde…" he continued. "I'm afraid Isolde is…is dead"

"_What_?" Arl Eamon shot to his feet, his face thunderous. "What do you mean 'dead'? What is the meaning of this?"

"She was…_possessed,_ brother," Teagan said quickly. "By a demon and had to be-"

"Well the woman was a demon in bed, I must admit," Eamon waved his chicken leg. "But…" it occurred to him that his unruly, rakehell of a little brother wasn't actually jesting or pulling his leg as per usual. "_Actually _possessed?" he asked. "By a demon?"

"I'm-I'm afraid so, brother," Teagan confirmed.

Silence reigned in the room for several minutes as the Arl sat down heavily in his chair, considering this information. After a while, he picked up his goblet, inspected its contents and drank deeply.

"Well…" he said, putting the goblet down. "Damnable thing…" Drumming his fingers, he contemplated the platter of food set before him then reached up to the sides of his head. "In that case, I suppose I won't be needing these any more."

Saying that, the Arl extracted two wadded-up bits of wool from his ears. "Beautiful woman," he said. "Wonderful bosoms but Maker, _her voice. _Could strip paint off a wagon, that woman." Eyebrows drawing downwards, he levelled a stern glare at Bann Teagan. "And the rest?"

"Ah, well…that…" Sparing no detail, Teagan described the events leading to this day; the reports of strange goings on, monsters emerging from the castle, the dead rising back to life, in very accurate, shambling impersonations of the walking dead, along with sound effects. While he did – admittedly - gloss over his stint in a bolted Chantry while the rest of the village was being defended by the Grey Warden party, his performance was so wonderful that at the end of the telling the room burst into a round of applause.

"Ah, well done that chappie!" the Arl thumped the table. "Grngh! Argrhn! Never thought a rendition of an abomination could bring a tear to my eye, but there it is!"

"If it hadn't been for Aloysius and his Band of Merry Wardens," Teagan concluded. "Redcliffe would surely have fallen, Eamon."

The Arl glared at his brother sharply. "Aloysius?"

With a sigh, Alistair helpfully held up his hand. "He uh, means _me, _your Excellency."

"What?" the Arl looked about then finally spotted the young brown man with the head like a chamber pot brush in the corner. "Maker's buttocks…_Alistair_?"

"Yes, Arl Eamon," Alistair confirmed, oddly breathless. "'Tis I."

"Thought you were dead!" the Arl waved his hand. "At Ostagar. Along with my beloved nephew Cailan…Damn it all, someone had better bring me up to date. What the Fade has been happening since that cursed battle?"

"I'm afraid I have bad tidings on that front as well, brother," Teagan stepped forward bravely. "Loghain has set himself as Regent and I fear it will not be long before he declares himself King. The man is mad with power and risks civil war." Looking about the room – his gaze lingering in particular on Zevran – "Those who have opposed him have been dealt with harshly," he added. "Loghain may have once been the voice of reason and a champion of Ferelden, but I have seen none of that reason since Ostagar."

"Hm," Eamon sat back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Not surprising when one thinks of it," he murmured thoughtfully. "Man cheats like you wouldn't believe at quoits." Retrieving another leg of meat, he brandished it like sword. "Never trust a man who wears purple! Damned distracting when a person's about to make that winning throw!"

Ignoring the fact that his own pants were indeed purple today, Bann Teagan cleared his throat and continued. "Brother, we need a strategy. Loghain _must_ be stopped at all costs. Ferelden cannot afford to be divided at a time like this. Not during a Blight."

"I agree…" Arl Eamon nodded. His head sunk to his chest, one hand stroking his beard. "Ah ha! Got it!" he announced. "Anora may have been Queen while she was married to Cailan, but if Loghain wishes to install himself as King, _that_ is where our strategy must lie! Teyrn or not, many consider him a commoner. _We _however have in our midst a stronger claim to the throne! One of _Theirin_ blood."

All eyes in the room, excepting Bann Teagan turned towards Alistair. The Bann continued to stare at his older brother. "You…You speak of Adelwyn?" he asked slowly.

"Adelwyn?" Eamon frowned. "Wasn't he Bann Wulf's third half-cousin removed by assassination? No, no, no, I'm thinking of this lad here!" Standing, the Arl walked to Alistair's and thumped the red-faced Grey Warden enthusiastically on the shoulder. "Ah ha! Our trump card! Loghain won't see it coming. Unless of course, the smarty-pants _did _and sent an assassin after the boy, but even Loghain wouldn't stoop to such base lengths…"

Alistair turned from deep pink to chalk-white as Bann Teagan coughed delicately behind his back, this time _avoiding _looking at Zevran.

"Bu…! But I don't want to be king!" Alistair protested.

"Oh ho, you will be, young feller me lad, if I _say_ you will," Arl Eamon poked Alistair's cheek hard. "I will call a Landsmeet," he went on, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Using the Grey Wardens and their allies as my own personal army, I will expose Loghain for the evil, cheating quoits cheater that he is! Once I bribe the Landsmeet to discredit that dirty, common-as-muck Anora I'll have the both of them executed! Ha ha! And then…and then…installing Maric's bastard on the throne as my own personal political puppet, _I_ will be the true power behind the throne! I, Arl Eamon! Tugging the strings of Maric's foolish mistake, will bend this country to my will…mwa ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Silence fell heavily upon the room, Bann Teagan shuffling his feet in embarrassment. Distracted by the sound, Arl Eamon looked sharply at his brother. "What?" he demanded.

Senior Enchanter Wynne made a ladylike 'ahem', "It appears, Your Excellency," she explained, "that as a result of your comatose state, you appear to have lost the ability to conduct an inner monologue…"

"Ah," Eamon stared at the faces about him. "Meaning…I've just said all of that out loud?"

"I'm afraid so, brother."

"Oh." The Arl looked about the room again then shrugged. "Oh well, moving right along. It'll save me having to write a memorandum later…" His still-roving gaze fell upon Merran and he blinked, transfixed by her luxuriant growth of hair. "My word, you're a pretty little thing. What's your name dearie?"

Merran pointed to herself, looked about then pointed to herself again. "Uh me? M-Merran…Your Excellency…"

"Merran!" The Arl clapped a hand to his chest. "A pretty name for a pretty lady! You wouldn't be a Grey Warden too?" Merran nodded. "My word, how delightful!" Repositioning himself, Arl Eamon patted his knee. "Why don't you come and sit on Uncle Eamon's knee while you tell me _all_ about your Grey Wardening?" he suggested with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "I'll give you a humbug…"

The Arl patted his pockets and found them empty. "Teagan, be a good lad and run down to my study to check my sweetie jar will you?" he instructed his brother. Smiling sidelong at Merran, he added. "Can't have the little sweetie miss out on her sweeties, can we?"

Merran clapped her hands to her chest. "Humbugs! Ooh, I love those!" In a thrice the little mage had hopped onto the Arl's knee so he could admire her beard braids the better while the rest in the room – Alistair in particular – looked on in horror. After a few seconds of silence, the Arl glanced up.

"What, still here?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Off the lot of you trot! Can't you see I'm _busy__?_"

-oo-


	23. The Rose

And also thank you to all of you who are reading, reviewing and tagging this story. I haven't forgotten you and how much I appreciate you taking the time to look in.

-oo-

**Chapter 23 – The Rose**

_I will not sit by like an empty sack waiting to be filled…! There is but __one__ thing to do: Flemeth _must _die…_

The timing Merran thought, could possibly have been better, but it was done. She and Jowan had agreed to Morrigan's proposal even though they were due to leave for Orzammar soon. She also fully intended to confront Flemeth personally. Merran felt she owed it to Morrigan. As a friend and companion.

Morrigan on the other hand, disagreed with this approach; the two women arguing deep into the night until even Jowan, normally a night owl, fell asleep curled up on a tussock with a snore like a dromedary with a head cold.

"T'is simply too dangerous," the marsh witch stubbornly argued. "My mother's interest in you is…_disturbing. _If you care at all for my advice you would not face Flemeth on your own. Send the Templar fool and the ogling elf," she then suggested. "Should anything untoward befall either of them, they shall not be missed."

"Morrigan…" Merran wrapped her arms about her knees tiredly, attempting to arrange her sluggish, sleepy thoughts into coherent order and failing completely. "I appreciate your concern, but…" She found her determination to have her way falling to the wayside in the wake of Morrigan's mention of Alistair. Perhaps it was her tiredness, but the comment annoyed Merran immensely.

"Do you really hate Alistair that much?" she asked.

A shapely eyebrow curved on Morrigan's alabaster forehead. As always Merran was struck by how incredibly beautiful the witch was, wondering yet again what Flemeth's true motives were in sending her daughter to accompany the Grey Wardens. It was a dangerous quest, with no guarantee of survival and the information gained from the recovered grimoire made the ancient witch's decision even more confusing.

"He is…a necessary evil," Morrigan replied, choosing her words carefully. "As long as I am not forced to walk downwind of him, I will continue to tolerate his presence." For a while it seemed to Merran as if the lovely witch was about to say more, changing her mind to eject Merran out of her lean-to instead.

"The sun will rise soon," was Morrigan's explanation, "and I will not be held responsible, should you fall off the mountain in your sleep-deprived state."

Merran pointed to Jowan sleepily, "What about him?"

Morrigan gave a long-suffering sigh. "Leave him. He will only make more noise if you attempt to move him."

Giving in to a jaw-cracking yawn as well as to Morrigan's decision to end the discussion – for now - Merran rose. After a brief 'good night', she turned vaguely in the direction of her tent, hoping that if she managed to shamble long enough that way she would collide with her bedroll and fall into it.

Instead, she tripped over a log, pitching head-first into the soggy ground.

"Ngng…" she muttered, resting her head on her arms and letting her eyes finally close. Not exactly her bedroll, but being on the ground seemed close enough.

"You know," the log mysteriously spoke in Alistair's voice. "We really should stop meeting this way. People are going to start talking."

Merran peeled open an eye. The log bore an even more mysterious resemblance to Alistair…which probably meant…_oh_. No wonder the log felt so comfy. It _was _Alistair. "You're up early," she yawned.

"You're up late" he shot back. "Do you realise it's almost dawn?" he asked with a scowl. "Have you been up _all_ night with the apostate?"

"_And_ the maleficar," Merran grinned cheekily, propping herself up on an elbow. "We were dancing – all night – under the moon. _Naked _as the day we were born_…_"

There was an annoyed chink of armour as Alistair folded his arms across his chest, which led Merran to wonder whether he'd slept in his armour.

"Am I supposed to be impressed by that?" he glared down his nose at her. "Believe me, the thought of any of you dancing about in your bare…i-in the dark…performing some kind of illegal…and _completely_…Naked?" his voice ended in a squeak. "Really? I mean…N-no clothes? At all? That would be utterly…so…it…it…"

Perhaps it was Zevran's influence, or her tiredness that made Merran feel reckless. "It would be what, Chantry boy?" she enquired, sitting up and leaning in close, nose to nose. The sun, making its first foray into the valley glowed in his amber eyes and turned his sandy blonde hair the colour of molten gold. Her gaze dropped involuntarily down the length of his aquiline nose to the curve of his mouth. Alistair had such a _nice _shaped mouth, she thought, fascinated by the darker stubble below his lower lip…and then his chin; a sudden urge to trace the angle of his jaw all the way across with a finger oddly overwhelming.

"You know how I feel about weird magic," she heard his voice as though from a great distance. "I may have to smite you all."

"Smite…" Merran repeated, not having processed Alistair's threat at all. "That's nice…". _Golly, I'm more tired than I thought, _her mind managed to cobble together_._ Her head just wasn't thinking right…right now. If it had been, the urge to lean forward and touch his lips with her own would never have occurred to her. At all. As it was…Wouldn't that be like…like…_kissing _him? Kiss Alistair? Her? Why in Thedas would she ever want to do that? It was a nonsensical idea. Not to mention suicidal.

_I wonder if he'll taste like cheese…?_

"Yes," Alistair said, sounding amused. "Templar technique. We call down the power of the Maker to bear upon the sinner. Very effective for making mages fall over; lose their lunch, or even their sense of direction. Sometimes…even _all_ the buttons from their mage robes_…_"

"Lovely."

"_Very _embarrassing_. _And if we combine it with a little bit of Rivaini hot sauce, their toenails grow outwards into bows, intestines lunge out of their throats to strangle their ears and cause them to recite the _Chant of Light_ while standing on their heads."

"Fascinating…" A half-moment later, Alistair's words sunk into her brain. The spell broken, Merran blinked, sinking back on her haunches and putting a bit of space between them. "You're making fun of me," she told him. _Again_.

"Make fun of _you_?" Alistair pretended to be offended. _Hah! Got you, __he thought at her. __That was for the 'dancing under the moon naked' comment_. "I wouldn't dare," he pouted. "You'd hit me again and you know how easily I bruise. Might be scarred for life. You forget what a delicate flower I am."

"Delicate flower?" Merran repeated, highly sceptical of this claim. "Psht."

Rolling her eyes at him she noticed the long, thin package balanced on his lap. She frowned. _Is that what I think it is? __The rose? _The one he'd found in Lothering all those months ago? It was rude, but she stared and pointed. "You haven't given it to Leliana yet?" she asked him. "I thought you would have by now."

"I'm…" he began uncomfortably. "I'm not going to give it to Leliana."

Merran grimaced. "Really? Then…you intend to give it to someone else?"

Alistair was glad the sun hadn't completely risen. The warmer tones the early light threw across their surroundings disguised the blush in his cheeks. Before he could speak however, Merran clapped her hands together. "I know! Zevran." she stated to a look of mild horror from him. "No? Morrigan?" she suggested instead.

"Do I look like I have a death wish?" Alistair demanded. "No, I think not!"

"Shale?" Merran suggested next. "Cullen?" Oh, now she was grasping at straws. Sooner or later she would run out of eligible females. "Wynne…?" Merran looked at Alistair askance. "You haven't formed an inappropriate attachment to an older woman, have you?" Shaking her head, Merran clucked her tongue. "Alistair, Alistair, Alistair…" she sighed. "Wynne's not just old you know. She's _ancient_. I think she might even be older than Flemeth. She's practically a relic…! The stuff they dig up from archaeological digs? Younger-"

"Actually," he interrupted, eyes drawn downwards. "I _had been_ considering giving it to you." Raising his head, he gave her an odd, undecipherable look. "But I've just changed my mind."

"Well…" Merran cocked her head to the side. "I'm not surprised. It would mean saying nice things to me. To a _mage._"

"Perhaps I was going to," Alistair sniffed. "You'll never know now, will you?"

"I don't believe you," Merran said so quickly she surprised even herself.

"Oh ye of little faith," he mocked her. "You don't believe at all that I could think of anything nice to say to you? Not if I really, _really_ tried? Hurting my brain and everything thinking that hard…I don't know how I'm going to get through the rest of my short life knowing my fellow Grey Warden had such little faith in me. I might need to have a bit of a cry…maybe throw myself off the mountain."

Merran rolled her eyes again, refusing to laugh at him. Gripping his knee, she gave him a shake."_Seriously, _Alistair," she began. "What happened? I thought you and Leliana were getting on just fine."

Gently removing Merran's hand from his knee, he sighed. He might as well come clean. It wasn't as if the argument he'd had with Leliana had been particularly discreet…

"We had _words_ yesterday," he said quietly. "Leliana wants me to be King. I don't want to be King," he stated simply. "She has this whole, romantic idea of a mysterious, hidden prince, revealing himself heroically to the people of Ferelden by his darkspawn-slaying deeds. That's…just not _me._ I know I've complained about it, but frankly, I'm quite…_happy_ being an illegitimate nobody, who was lucky enough not to have died along with the other Grey Wardens at Ostagar." Looking down at the rose, he sighed. "I _like _being invisible. Invisible is good. All I want to do is fight the darkspawn…I don't know…maybe even have the chance to finish Duncan's work establishing the Order here. Before…"

It had been months since Ostagar and still Alistair's voice filled with emotion at the mention of his mentor. This time, when Merran placed her hand on his, he turned his over, grasping her fingers gratefully.

He didn't release her hand.

"This whole king thing really upsets you?" she murmured. He nodded silently and Merran pursed her lips, keeping her thoughts to herself because she didn't think that the whole idea of Alistair being King was such a bad idea. The Theirins were a strong bloodline. History backed up that claim, all the way to Calenhad. Cailan too, except the young king had never really been given the chance to move beyond the boyish, idealist youth so many presumed him to be. In the short time he had been Ferelden's monarch, King Cailan had been well-loved, popular, already known for his kindness. And Alistair shared many of Cailan's traits, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

She couldn't deny however, Alistair's reluctance to lead stemmed not just from an inability to do so, but because the man had been discouraged from…just about everything most of his life. It would be difficult to counter so many years of being told 'stay in the background, you're not wanted', to 'it's time to be in charge of everything'. But, _Leliana_…

"Perhaps…" Merran began cautiously. "Leliana regards you so highly that she thinks you'd make a wonderful king? You have a good heart, Alistair – maybe not around mages – but everyone else…" She wrapped both hands around his and gave them an encouraging squeeze. And _then _she brought out her trump card…"_Duncan_ certainly thought very highly of you. He had a great deal of affection for you." Trump card or not, it had been quite obvious that the old Warden Commander indeed had held Alistair with both respect and affection.

For a few dark minutes, Alistair did not speak. Then he very carefully removed his gloves, placing them to the side. Picking up the package, he gently unwrapped the rose, reclaimed Merran's hand and to her utter surprise, bent to place a kiss in her palm.

"Thank you," he said softly, his thumb almost absentmindedly caressing the back of her hand. "Duncan…He spoke very highly of you too. But I…" A heavy, self-critical sigh followed, along with a tiny shake of his head.

"I was so jealous of you," he admitted. "At first. Even though I'd known Duncan for only a short time; barely six months in fact, he'd become like a father to me; the first person in my life who cared what _I_ wanted…" He paused with another self-deprecating sigh. "And then _you_ arrived, tainted from birth and suddenly it felt like I wasn't…special anymore. Duncan thought he might even be your…" Alistair claimed Merran's other hand. Despite the bitterness of his words, he needed her to know that all of that was in the past now. 'Special'? He was ashamed to think how childish and selfish he had been. So much had fallen to their shoulders; so much responsibility and he'd been…well he'd been an ass, actually.

"I didn't want to accept it – or you," he admitted, "but I've…come to…Well it was wrong of me, Merran. _Duncan_ had faith in you and I should have had faith in you too. Not the least because you were a mage but well…I was stupid and dumb and blind and…" Alistair pinned Merran with a very direct, open gaze. "I'm sorry Merran," he told her. "I'm sorry I ever wished you weren't here. Because…" he added earnestly, "the truth is I'm glad that you are."

He extended the rose towards her. "So," he said. "This…this is for you. In a way," he added. "It's come to represent sort of…well…" The sun was mostly up now and this time there was no disguising his deep blush. "How I've…I've come to feel about, well about…_you_. That once I looked beyond the thorns, there was true beauty to be found and uh…well. There it is. Really."

He'd run out of words and was now at a loss. A breath or so away, Merran merely stared at him, her continuing un-speaking state making him feel even more awkward and nervous. Then she took the rose, sitting back and staring at that for a change. As the newly minted sun bathed the Frostbacks in light, there came sounds of stirring in the camp behind them. Sten was usually the first to rise and no doubt would favour them with a sarcastic comment or two, but Alistair still waited. And he would wait for however long it took her to come up with an answer.

As Merran bore all the resemblance of a puppy given a new toy and had absolutely no idea what to do with it, he took a deep breath. "Do you need me to explain it again?" he asked. "With smaller words and speaking slowly?"

He expected her to hit him. Instead, Merran nodded, her deep brown eyes wide and expectant.

"Rose," Alistair pointed to the still-perfect rose in her hand. "You," he pointed to her. Wrapping his hands about hers, he added. "Do you get it now?"

Merran grimaced. "I think I might need more words after all…"

Shaking his head, Alistair chuckled. "What I'm trying to say is-"

"I'm the rose?" Merran interrupted him."

"Well, y-yes," Alistair blinked. _Wait. _"No…sort of. Not literally, obviously."

"With spiky bits," Merran added.

"That would be the thorns, yes."

"But I don't have thorns," Merran told him.

"I didn't say you had thorns-"

"Well, then what were you saying?" she demanded. "Are you saying that my hair sticks up like spikes? You have a problem with spiky hair?"

"No…I…No…What?" Alistair shook his head, wondering how in Thedas the tender moment he'd begun could have so quickly turned into _this._ Then he reminded himself whom he was speaking to.

"I still don't understand…?" Merran said in a pleading tone because Alistair was being nice to her and it was so confusing she wanted to cry. All this time he really hated her, but in actual fact he didn't because she wasn't a mage. Or was that because she _was_ a mage? Well clearly not, because he was telling her she was a flower. _Nug poop, what have I missed here? Have I hit my head somewhere and not noticed?_

"It's a metaphor," Alistair spoke slowly. "And the rose is…the rose is…something beautiful in amongst all the dread and darkness-"

"Not in soil?" she interrupted.

"What?"

"Wouldn't it have been better if it had been grown in soil?" Merran asked. "In a pot, maybe?"

"No, it…" Alistair frowned. It was typical really, that she'd spoil a perfectly good, romantic moment like this and turn it into…"Look, does it matter?"

"Well to the rose, it does!" Merran echoed his frown.

Dropping his forehead into his hand, Alistair groaned. "_Andraste's _scorched lederhosen," he muttered. "_Why…_" Why did he even bother? Well because…because. "Because you bring colour into our lives," he explained, starting to feel desperate. "You force yourself to be cheerful when you're feeling sad. You make others laugh when they want to cry; care about people even when they deserve it the least. You help others before yourself." Throwing his arms out, he told her: "You're a ray of bloody sunshine."

Merran stared, her mouth turned down, trying to digest what Alistair had just said and finding it was giving her indigestion. "But a rose is none of those things, Alistair," she said. "Why are you comparing-"

"_Argh_!"

He wanted to kick something, or throw himself onto the ground and have the biggest tantrum of his life, except he was already on the ground and hadn't he just pretty much promised that childish Alistair was a thing of the past? Why couldn't Merran be like other girls and go 'ooh! Pretty flower!' and kiss him? _Maker, _she was so much work. And yet, he knew he couldn't help himself. Now that he'd started liking this weird, annoying little mage, he couldn't stop. He'd been so depressed about starting to feel this way and fooling himself into thinking he really _wasn't _starting to fall for her because why would he? The last time he'd looked he was completely sane. _Maker, _the number of times the things she said or did made his life flash before his eyes…and then finding that he just couldn't accept anyone else being mean to her except him because…because…

If anyone was going to run her through with their blasted sword it should be _him, _damn it and only him!

After he kissed the living daylights out of her.

He decided to give this one more try. He cupped her bewildered face in his hands. "You are…" he began. "Annoyingly, irritatingly, aggravatingly amazing and wonderful…and I can't imagine going through this Blight with anyone else at my side but you." _There_. _If that doesn't do it, I'm going to cry and I won't care how unmanly that looks. _

In the wake of Alistair's final speech, Merran's mouth slowly made a perfect letter 'O' in uppercase, then even more slowly, she began to smile. Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. _Yes, I do believe she's got it!_

"So," she asked nervously. "Does that mean we're married now?"

Dropping his head again into his hands, Alistair began to sob. _Maker help me,_ he thought despondently. _I've fallen for an idiot._

-oo-

Something was…wrong. Shivering, Merran pulled the edges of her cloak tighter, then a moment later, pushed her hood back and untied the toggles, feeling overheated. She stumbled on the steep mountain path when her vision blurred yet again. Her head felt strange; heavy and buzzing; the soles of her feet tingling with every step. It was as if she could feel the darkspawn in their caves beneath the mountain rock; _hear_ them; and the feeling had only increased, the further they travelled the mountain road to the dwarven city of Orzammar.

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she huffed big clouds of steam, finding as the moisture made contact with her bare skin, it burned. She was exhausted and yet, invigorated at the same time, feeling an odd compulsion to climb the surrounding trees and swing from branch to branch, yodelling.

Was it because they were getting close to Orzammar and so, closer to the home of the darkspawn? She squinted ahead at Alistair's wide, armoured back. Deep in conversation with the Senior Enchanter, he did not appear to be feeling as out of sorts as she.

She gave her head another shake and shrugged off her cloak, throwing it over her shoulder. They had not encountered a single darkspawn since leaving Redcliffe…

A muffled sound behind her made her turn. "…of course not! It kills mages if they get a dose of unprocessed ore…"

Merran narrowed her eyes at Jowan, his voice sounding like fingernails being scratched over polished slate. What were they discussing? 'Unprocessed ore'? What sort of…? It occurred to her then that her old Tower friend was discussing the lyrium trade between Orzammar and Ferelden. She paused. _Why haven't I thought of this before? _Lyrium did _strange_ things to her. In the Tower, lyrium was controlled very carefully; stingily portioned out to Apprentices for only justified reasons.

They had stopped letting her anywhere near lyrium after the…_incident_.

And Orzammar. Orzammar didn't have just darkspawn.

It had _lyrium._ It was everywhere. In the rock, in the air…in the soil under their feet…She'd been just about to ask whether it was too late to maybe turn back when something slammed into her shoulder. Staggering backwards, Merran lifted her hand, wondering vaguely why she hurt. She looked down; deep red spreading across her pale shirt.

There was a hole.

In. Her. New. Shirt.

The one she'd worked hard to obtain. She'd spent the last few months making sure everyone else had good gear. The one time. The _one _time she finally has something new for a change and then…

Barely aware of the Senior Enchanter's rapidly-murmured, healing spell, Merran gripped the shaft of the arrow protruding from her shoulder and gave it a violent tug. Blood spurted; much to Wynne's alarm, but Merran did not care.

All she cared about right now was finding the _criminal _who had just ruined her one and only _good _shirt and telling him – or her – how _peeved_ she was.

The snow about her feet steaming, Merran swivelled, demanding, "Who did this? which nug-humper just ruined my _only good shirt?_"

The Senior Enchanter went flying as Merran grabbed random bodies out of the air. "Was it you?" she screeched, finding one moment the terrified face of an unknown bandit between her hands, the next…ashes. A tanned face swam into view, tattoos swirled along one side of his face. "Was it _you…_?" she growled, arms glowing blue fire. And then, nothing except a sudden wave of dizziness and loss of all feeling in her extremities. Merran staggered again, falling to her knees. Blood peppered the ground from her shoulder wound and a pair of metal-shod feet that appeared near her hands. She craned her head upwards, her brain barely registering the identity of the owner of the feet as darkness consumed her.

Only that her abrupt loss of…everything originated from them.

-oo-

When Merran next woke, it was to the sound of voices gurgling like a brook around her. She blinked her eyes open to a sky of striped grey and black.

"Thank the Maker, you're alright…"

She turned her head to find Jowan's worried, pale face beside her. Touching cool, calloused fingers to her forehead he added, "Alistair hit you pretty hard. Stupid question, but how do you feel?"

Unable to answer as the events on the mountain poured into her head, Merran squeezed her eyes closed. "How's _Zevran?_" she asked.

"Alive," Jowan said simply. "And…so is Sten…and Leliana…and uh, oh I suppose Alistair too."

"Him too?" Merran asked, eyes springing open and trying not to sound _too _impressed that she'd managed to hit so many people in such a short time and _then _berated herself because they were _supposed _to be her friends.

"Oh yes," Jowan sat back, looking smug. "You would have crushed him completely if he hadn't hit you with that incredibly powerful Holy Smite and drained all your mana."

At that Merran sprang upright, goggling at Jowan. "Crushed him?" Sinking her head into her hands, she groaned. "Nug poop…" _How much are armour repairs going to cost us this time?_ "But he's fine, right? Not…injured…too much?"

"Why?" Jowan asked suspiciously. "Why should you care? He's a Templar-"

"He's a Grey Warden," Merran reminded him primly, ignoring the sudden heat creeping rapidly up her neck into her cheeks. "As are you. Technically."

"Hm…" Jowan's vague, disapproving murmur was long and deeply disapproving. "Once a Templar, always a Templar," he reminded _her_, thin-lipped. "And I would have thought you would have learned your lesson with Templars by now. They're dangerous people to be around," he eyed Merran beadily, recalling that – _ugh! _– embrace between the two of them near Haven. "_E__specially _if you're a mage," Jowan added in warning. "Not to mention, he's the heir to the Ferelden throne. What do you think's going to happen to you when he's King. Keep you around?" Jowan snorted. "The Chantry _hates _mages. You think the Grand Cleric would let you anywhere near the King of Ferelden?"

"But…" Merran protested in a small voice, "Alistair doesn't want to be king."

"I don't see that he has much choice, myself," Jowan snapped. "Stop doing this to yourself, Merran," he continued, the warning in his voice hard as granite. "Before you end up hurt. Again."

Merran flinched at the vehemence in Jowan's voice, unable to keep her friend's own, bad experiences with the Chantry out of the equation. When the situation had become too difficult, hadn't that Chantry Initiate – Lily – abandoned him? Worse, reported him to the authorities? Betrayed him?

"You can pretend all you want," Jowan continued ruthlessly, "But I know how much you cared for Ser Cullen-"

"Who hates me," Merran reminded him. "Hates all mages. Nor do blame him, after what he's suffered at the hands of Circle Mages…"

"And that's my _point_, Merran," Jowan insisted on being heard out. "In the end, it won't matter what good we do, or whether we save Ferelden from the Blight. They'll always hate us. _Fade, _people treat elves badly and we mages don't even rate as high."

Swinging her legs out of the cot, Merran gripped the edge of the frame, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. "And _my _point is Alistair isn't like that…" she began, the moment she said it, knowing instantly Jowan wouldn't believe her. Alistair's continuing distrust of Morrigan remained obvious on a daily basis. As was his aversion to the powerful magic Merran used and because Jowan had practised blood magic…Even his close grandmother-grandchild relationship with Senior Enchanter Wynne wouldn't convince him. It wouldn't matter. Wynne was _Circle _through and through.

There was however one argument Merran could put forward; an argument to prove there was little chance of her ever being hurt by Alistair. It just wasn't one that she'd been looking forward to revealing.

She took a deep breath. "Look, Jowan," she began slowly. "It…it…Really, believe me, it doesn't matter."

Jowan ran a hand through his unruly black hair. "Except it _does, _Merran. I don't want to see your heart broken."

_Oh Maker…this is far, far more difficult than I thought it would be! _"My heart won't get a chance to be broken," she tried a slightly different route.

"What the _Fade, _is that supposed to mean?"

Extending her arms, Merran placed her hands on his shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. They had known each other from childhood; she and Jowan. They'd shared so much together, gone through so much. Her best friend. Her _brother. _

He had to know.

She removed one hand and crooked a finger. "First," she said, "pinky promise you won't get angry."

"This is childish, I thought we'd gone beyond all this," Jowan complained, even while he crooked his finger through hers.

'_Kay…_"It's a Grey Warden thing," Merran began slowly. "We don't live all that long-"

"What?"

"Hush, you pinky-promised," Merran reminded him and Jowan sat back, lips pursed. "Grey Wardens don't normally…reveal this sort of information but seeing as you're a conscript…Anyway, it's all to do with the Taint. Grey Wardens use it to fight the darkspawn but with me it's…" She took another breath, wishing Jowan didn't look so worried now or…angry. "We voluntarily undergo being tainted to do so-"

"That's monstrous!" Jowan exclaimed. "How could they do this to you? To anyone?"

"_Voluntarily," _Merran repeated. "And…in my case, the Joining _saved _my life. Without it, I would not be alive." Closing her eyes, Merran recalled the conversation between the First Enchanter and Duncan. A conversation she was quite sure hadn't been intended for her ears. "For a little while longer anyway," she added quietly. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to find Alistair standing rock-still at the entrance to the tent. She grimaced; his expression causing her heart to skip a painful beat. She hadn't intended Alistair to find out about all this in this way, but if she was going to reveal all to Jowan, then she might as well include her fellow Grey Warden too.

"I've always been tainted," she exhaled a long-held breath. "Always dreamed about the darkspawn …"

"I remember," Jowan said quietly. "When you used to wake up screaming I thought the Templars were going to run you through."

Merran nodded. "And…_someone_," she added, raising her gaze to include Alistair, "told me once that the older Wardens; those that have been tainted for longest…can understand the Archdemon." Spreading her hands wide, she grimaced again. "Well. I can," she admitted, the reveal not making her heart any lighter as she had hoped. "I've been talking to the Archdemon. For a while now."

"The Calling…" It was Alistair who spoke. The simple, two-word sentence sounding harsh in his strained voice. At Jowan's surprised look, the Grey Warden added, "It's when…it's when Grey Wardens know that they're…dying. That it's the end."

"How long are we talking about here?" Jowan demanded, gripping Merran's hand hard.

Merran shrugged. "I don't know…weeks, months?" It was a wild guess. It had been one of the things she had always intended to ask Duncan about, but never got the chance to. "I'm hoping it'll be long enough to gather our army and stop the Blight and…" She couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand the look in either man's face and an thoroughly inappropriate wave of levity hit her. "So much to do, so much to see before I turn up my toes, as they say."

Passing a hand over his eyes, Jowan groaned. "_Merran_…"

"Kick the bucket," she couldn't help adding.

"Oh for the _Makers_ sake, Merr…!"

"Take a walk in the Fade Garden," followed swiftly after. "Pop my clo-"

"_STOP!"_

Alistair's shout was half-plea, half-agonised wail. Clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides, he began shaking his head and then, with a shaking, sharp intake of breath, he turned abruptly and left.

"And…that's why you shouldn't worry about me having my heart broken," Merran told Jowan quietly in the ensuing, dreadful silence. "Because I'm more likely to break his first."

-oo-


	24. Orzammar! Orzammar! Oi! Oi! Oi!

This chapter does _not _involve dwarf tossing of any kind…maybe…

-oo-

**Chapter 24 – Orzammar, Orzammar, Oi! Oi! Oi!**

"Alistair…!"

Tumbling off the cot, Merran's hasty dash after the retreating Grey Warden ended abruptly at the tent's entrance, blinking in sudden surprise at the unexpected ocean of people. Short people. _Dwarves…_bustling about like a colony of bearded ants at the foot of an enormous set of carven stone doors set into the sheer face of a mountain. Merchants competed aggressively loud, their colourful pavilions delineating carefully marked territories. Everywhere she looked were tables, piles of merchandise and racks displaying the best, unusual – and exclusive – items that Orzammar had to offer. And it wasn't just the merchants that crowded; customers jostled each other for bargains and where there wasn't a special price to be had; vociferous but good-natured haggling with the various vendors.

Merran had never seen so many dwarves before. Bodahn Feddic and Sandal had been the first of the Stout Folk that she had met and she had been fascinated by them since. Completely and utterly forgetting why she had left the tent in the first place, Merran clapped a hand to her chest, grinning madly.

"So…" she breathed. "So…_adorable…_"

After a while of gawking, someone tapped her lightly on her uninjured shoulder. "I'm _here_," a wry voice informed her.

Tearing her gaze from the colourfully-dressed crowd, she transferred her impulse to hug every single dwarf in the area to Alistair instead.

"Oh my gosh!" she gushed. "How cute are these little fellows!" Bouncing on the soles of her feet, Merran cast a pleading look upwards. "Can I have one? Please? Pretty please? Just a little one? I promise I'll look after him. Or her…"

A sigh and a crooked eyebrow was all Alistair could manage, given the information he'd just learned about how truly short Merran's life was going to be. The fact that she was barely taller than the average dwarf and yet wanted to make a pet of one made him roll his inner eye. Just a little bit. Then reaching down, he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and stepped back behind their hired tent. When he set her down on her feet again, Merran merely gazed at him expectantly, completely unfazed by his actions.

Tentatively, she pointed towards the market. "No…no dwarf?" she asked.

"Mer…" _Where did a person start with something like this, _he asked himself desperately_?_ _And I'm going to forget – for the moment – how adorable her reaction to the dwarves were. _It was not the point. The point was…the point was…_You already knew she was tainted,_ the small, annoying voice in the back of his head reminded him. _Talked about it to Duncan, remember? _It had just been…something unimportant; to be forgotten. Until now. Who could have predicted that he'd form an attachment to the new Mage recruit?

_Well, Duncan did, _the annoying voice nudged him smugly.

'Don't die?' How could he say something like that? Everyone died eventually. Either of them could die any time fighting darkspawn, or bandits, or mercenaries, or assassins. It wasn't as if being a Grey Warden was a safe occupation. It was just…_Maker, _Merran was younger than he, barely out of the Tower._This isn't fair!_

With no words forthcoming, Alistair moved forward, wrapping his arms about her and resting his chin on the top of her head soundlessly. She felt so tiny; insubstantial yet wonderfully soft and warm. How could a wisp of a girl contain so much power? Power enough to crush heavy plate with barely a thought? Obliterate a detachment of darkspawn into a smear of red across the landscape as easily as a dainty sneeze? He might not understand how it all worked, but he was damned grateful all that power was on their side. His sister in arms. The only other Grey Warden in Ferelden. Of all their company, Merran understood the meaning of the nightmares that plagued their sleep; felt the weight of their duty and the slow creep of Taint through their veins.

All the…unpleasant things. Merran had experienced none of the _good_ things about being a Grey Warden; the camaraderie, the moments of silliness, the feeling of _family. _She'd never had a chance to offload her worries, or her fears or even…Merran _talked _to the Archdemon? If he hadn't been such an ass, that burden could have been shared. Instead, because of a stupid, petty misunderstanding of his own making, she'd had to carry all of that on her own_. All this time. _

How was he supposed to make up for all of that? In the time that she had left? How much time would that be? With stinging eyes, Alistair tightened his hold. _Why do I have such bad timing?_

_What am I going to do without her?_

He didn't know how long the two of them stood there, behind the tent in the shadows. All Alistair knew was that he didn't want to let go. Until…he became aware that she was fidgeting. Attempting to lever her hands between them.

It occurred to him that she might not…want_…this._ Or him.

Releasing her, Alistair stood back, afraid that Merran would tell him _go. _Instead she tossed back her braid, pushing her fringe off her forehead.

"Phew!" she patted her collarbone. "For a moment there I thought you were going to suffocate me." Grinning up at him she added, "Trying to smother me with love, huh?" Reaching up, she pinched his cheeks. "Oh darn, you're so adorable. Not as adorable as a dwarf, but you'll do.

Relief flooded every cell in his body. She thought he was adorable? Really? That was good. That was a good sign. He could continue to work with that. But…he still had to _ask_.

Before he could, she crooked a finger at him, gesturing him closer; mouth curved in an invitingly cheeky smile he knew there was little chance of resisting. Not that resistance was anywhere near his brain at this moment, his question hastily shuffled to the back of his dizzy head. Her slender arms reached up around his shoulders; his own sliding about her waist. There was a bit of bending over – again, could work with that – their difference in height fast becoming irrelevant. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, sliding into his hair. It felt _wonderful._

Alistair's eyes half-closed. He'd never kissed anyone before and he'd wondered how it all worked, but this…_this _felt right, as natural as breathing. Lips slightly parted, he bent his head lower…then jumped as she suddenly levered herself up onto tiptoe…and bit his nose.

Alistair blinked, tears springing once more into his eyes because her little jest _hurt_. This was not romantic in the least. It was however, very, very Merran.

"Think you're funny do you?" he asked, even as she chortled at him; her breath warming his cheeks because her teeth remained fixed lightly around the end of his nose. "Just in case I haven't made it clear previously," he added. "I think you're thoroughly evil." Nor had he ever thought a _nose _could be considered an erogenous zone…not that a good, Chantry-raised lad like himself would ever know what 'erogenous' meant…but well, if he _had_ then he would certainly find that it was and maybe ask her to do this again maybe. Sometime. When she wasn't busy fighting darkspawn or…being completely, delightfully…

"Hey you two…" a bored voice called down the alley, "Don't we have a Blight to stop?"

The moment broken, Merran loosened her hold on Alistair and peered around his shoulder. Touching her thumb to her nose she waggled her fingers as Jowan. "Stickybeak!" she called back.

"Well," Jowan's lip curled. "Darkspawn wait for no-" the dark-haired Mage disappeared; to be replaced by a grinning Leliana.

"You're coming with me, Jowan," Leliana told the Mage firmly, giving him another shove. "To help me look at _shoes_."

"Oh, Maker…please…_no_…" Jowan pleaded. He threw one, last beseeching look at Merran; who completely ignored him. She was too busy snuggling, burying her head into Alistair's chest.

"It's alright, you know," he heard her murmur softly.

_Absolutely _unwilling to release her this time, Alistair contented himself with brushing his lips over her ear. "What is?" he asked.

Pushing away slightly, Merran touched his face, looking more serious than he had ever seen or thought possible. "Taking one day at a time," she said.

_One day at a time._

One day. One hour, one minute, one step, one breath…_one heartbeat at a time,_ Alistair added to himself.

"To Orzammar?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Alistair nodded. He knew his cue by now. And he would not disappoint her. Not in the time she had left. Every day, every hour, every minute, every heartbeat she had with him, he would make sure she knew how…awesome and amazing he thought she was. This he vowed with a ferocity that surprised him.

"Why not?" he asked, with another kiss to her palm. "I've always wanted to spit off the Orzammar bridge into their famous river of lava. Haven't you?"

-oo-

Petra was mystified…and worried. One moment she was helping to sort books in the library, the next the Templars had marched in, ordering everyone from the facility. Herded like livestock into the Great Hall they were instructed to wait with little other information to guide them. Looking about the room she sought familiar faces; an easy enough exercise given how few Mages had survived Uldred's attempted takeover of the Circle.

The Templars then positioned themselves on the perimeter of the hall; a silent yet menacing ring of armoured pillars. Ser Cullen was noticeably not part of their group, having been removed several days earlier. She'd heard _things; _rumours about how the damaged young Templar had attacked three apprentices without provocation. Since the whole, messy business with Uldred's Libertarians, the Templars had been even more watchful, if that was at all possible. Even the First Enchanter seemed wary as well as weary, aged by the incident. It was at times like these Petra missed Senior Enchanter Wynne and her calming influence. It seemed the Tower truly was becoming a prison for Mages.

A tense hubbub had filled the hall. Petra remained hyper-alert, listening for any clue as to what might be going on. Then the large double doors groaned open, the First Enchanter and Knight Commander entering side by side, arguing.

"…and how do you think my Mages obtained that much material, Greagoir?" Petra heard First Enchanter Irving inquire of his Templar counterpart coolly.

"Your Mages are resourceful," Knight Commander Greagoir snapped. "I certainly wouldn't put it past _any_ of them to-"

"Stuff and nonsense!" Irving interrupted. "You know perfectly well the kind of magic required for such work," he went on. "If your Templars are as vigilant as you claim, they would have found the source and dealt with it."

"Are you suggesting that my Templars have been lax in their duty?" Greagoir demanded.

"Suggesting?" Irving's eyebrows curved upwards. "I am not suggesting anything, Greagoir. What I _am_ saying is that is it highly unlikely any Mage yet remaining in this Tower could have performed such unusual magic…if," Irving's eyebrows drew downwards in an aggressive scowl, "such a Mage managed to access the Templar's sparring room in the first place."

"Agreed!" Greagoir barked, torn between finding the culprit and defending the skills of his Templars. "_Highly _unlikely!

"Well, in that case the two of us can stop this childish bickering and get on with something more important." Irving cast a disapproving eye at the fence of silent Templars. "What is this Greagoir? Dancing lessons? I should enjoy that."

Greagoir snorted. "This doesn't solve the problem of having that…_mess _fixed!"

The First Enchanter shrugged. "You don't think it might be something of an improvement, Greagoir? I actually thought the change in décor was rather relaxing myself."

"_You _might think so," the Knight Commander snorted, casting doubt on the First Enchanter's taste. "I for one do not appreciate our sparring area containing…wildlife. And I want every shrubbery removed!"

"Peacocks are good luck!" Irving reminded his colleague then sighed. "Very well," he said. "I will send some Tranquil to remove the…_objet d'art _to my office. I rather think that green-striped silk might do nicely in my personal study. When I'm all set up, I might even invite you over for tea."

There was a sound that emerged from the Knight Commander's throat like the grinding of a millstone_, _but he said nothing else, proceeding on to his waiting Knight Captain. The signal given, the Templars filed out of the Great Hall. When the last had gone, the First Enchanter surveyed his small collection of Mages, Apprentices and Tranquil with a proud, fatherly eye. When his gaze landed on Petra, he winked, causing the young Healer to step back in surprise.

"Well, that was rather interesting." It was Kinnon, another one of Wynne's graduates.

Petra nodded. "And yet another occasion for which we are not ever likely to be enlightened about, no doubt."

Kinnon grinned. "You sound more and more like the Senior Enchanter," he teased, provoking a sour expression from Petra. "What's that?" he asked suddenly, pointing to an object tucked under her arm. Petra looked down. She'd completely forgotten she had it.

"_The Adventures of Roland the Cat_…" Kinnon read the title on the scorched spine. "That was one of my favourite stories as a child. I didn't know the Tower library had a copy."

Petra found herself drawing the book out of Kinnon's reach. "Well, you can't borrow it," she told him primly. "Not while…not until I've finished repairing it."

"I wasn't about to…" Kinnon frowned at the uncharacteristically possessive reaction of his fellow Healer. Over a children's book no less. "Fine…" he shrugged, "Whatever makes you happy."

-oo-

For the second time, Merran attempted to push past Alistair's elbow, scowling. With so much lyrium-related products in the dwarven market, her magic was buzzing again. While she knew Alistair would not hesitate to use his Templar abilities on her, dealing with the individual who'd introduced himself as _The King's Messenger, _had priority.

"Did he just say…_King_ Loghain?" she asked.

"Yes I did!" the messenger – Imrek – confirmed. He turned to the dwarf guardsmen. "And I order you to remove this…_stain _from my presence! The Grey Wardens _betrayed _King Cailan and left him to his death-"

"Oi!" Merran pushed against Alistair's elbow again. "Lies!" she pouted. "Calumny!"

Tired of so much noise after a traditionally heavy dwarven night, the guardsman rolled his eyes. "The two of you can bark at each other all you want," he growled – directing the bulk of his impatience at the Messenger – "as long as you take it off _my _doorstep."

"Oh damn…" Alistair took several steps backwards, dragging Merran with him. He was unarmoured – still – as his damaged plate set was still being repaired. Merran had cast something called 'Rock Armour' on him and Zevran had very helpfully and violently thrown some of his sharpest knives at him to test the impenetrability of the spell, but he still felt exposed and vulnerable. Not to mention, in little else but an unadorned, heavy woollen tunic and cloak, no one, least of all Loghain's representative, was taking him seriously.

"And as for your stain…!" Merran snarked back at the fuming Imrek. "I'd recommend milk!" Waggling her fingers rudely, she added; "Gets just about anything out; blood, poo, _sarcasm_…"

"You are traitors and betrayers!" Imrek roared back, causing Merran to look askance at him.

"Tch," she snorted over Alistair's outstretched arm. "Man has anger management issues." Standing on tiptoe, she chirped back sweetly back. "Is that all you have, 'Loghain's Messy-anger'? That and casting nasturtiums on the good name of the Grey Wardens?"

"Um, Merran…" Alistair whispered. "That would be 'aspersions'…"

"A sturgeon on us!" Merran corrected then frowned up at Alistair. "I thought they were a kind of fish."

"I never said anything about a fish," Alistair frowned back.

"Excursion!" Merran tried again. Alistair smacked his forehead with his hand. "Surgeon?" she asked.

"My vote is to remove the man's head from his shoulders," Sten rumbled, drawing his broadsword and lowering his own head into attack stance.

"No, wait, wait, wait," Merran stamped her foot. "I think I have a point to make here." She pointed accusingly at Imrek. "Do I go about Ferelden telling people they have bad body odour and overly prominent nose hairs? That their choice of too-snug undergarments are probably placing at risk their ability to father little Loghain mini-messengers? Huh? Do I? Do I?"

"Well, actually…" Leliana began, her voice cut off by Imrek's roar.

"I demand _at once _to see your king!"

"Orzammar currently has no king," the guardsman stated stonily. "No one gets in. I don't care who _your_ sodding king is."

"Nyah, nyah!" Merran thumbed her nose at Loghain's representative. "_My_ treaty here says Grey Wardens get exclusive, unlimited entry to Orzammar, at _all times._" As the guard took the proffered scroll, Merran poked her tongue out at Loghain's messenger.

"Well, this appears to be in order," he said to anyone who might be listening. "Grey Wardens, you may pass."

"_What_?" Imrek exploded. "B-but I am the king's _personal_ messenger!"

"You could be your king's personal butt-wiper for all I care," the guardsman growled. "You're. Not. Getting. In."

"Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner…!"

"That _really _isn't helping," Alistair nudged Merran. For good measure he reached around and clamped his hand across her mouth, sidling towards the Orzammar gates. They had after all, been given permission to enter…For all Merran's taunting however, it was Alistair's heading towards the gates that was the catalyst for Imrek and his staff to draw their weapons and attack. Alistair barely had time to grab his own sword, catching Imrek's heavy blade but feeling the sting on his cheek as the edge of the messenger's sword nicked his skin. Their connected swords fizzled with electricity then Alistair felt a whoosh of extreme cold; Morrigan's conjured ice spears finding their target in the enemy Mage. A moment later, Zevran dispatched the woman altogether, knocking arrows out of the air with both swords to reach her. Alistair might have felt undefended without his armour, but for the first time in a long while, he felt light, taking advantage of the lack of metal baggage to move faster, making every sword swing count. His shield smashed into Imrek's chest, knocking the messenger off the stone steps into the market crowd. Like all good hordes who knew a good fight when they saw one, they immediately pounced on the fallen soldier and his men, pelting them with produce both fresh and…not so fresh.

Soaked in head to leather-clad toe in organic matter, Imrek scrambled to his feet to escape the angry crowd, the look he managed to convey to the Grey Wardens as he attempted to flee a portent of things to come.

"You just did me a favour, Wardens," the dwarf guard called to them as the crowd dispersed. "That fool has been bleating at me for weeks. Are all humans so touched?"

Dusting herself off, Merran bounced up the steps. "We try our best!" she bowed cheerfully.

The guardsman shook his head, pausing as a…a…_golem, was it? _joined the party, apologising for being late and asking what she-he-it had just missed.

"Couldn't you at least have waited until I got back?" the golem complained. "You know how much I enjoy a good squishing…" It paused at the door, gazing down at the guards with glowing eyes of blue lyrium fire. "What?" it asked. "Haven't you ever seen a walking rock before?" Then it _snorted…_"Huh, _plebeians_…"

-oo-

Orzammar was both everything and nothing like the stories Alistair had heard; the scale, majesty and incredible beauty of just the city's approach rendering him speechless. Not just one, but _several _rivers of lava flowed through the city, illuminating everything in a warm, molten yellow glow and raising the temperature so that he had to untie the toggles of his tunic as he'd begun to perspire. He stopped at the bridge leading to a place called the Hall of Heroes and gaped like a loon, uncaring how gauche and touristy he might look.

"Hm…Do you think these dwarves might be compensating for something?" Zevran inquired, craning his neck to look upwards at the nearest statue. Alistair knew they were representations of the dwarven Paragons; men and women renowned for their great deeds to dwarven society. He'd done a little research when Duncan told him the Wardens would go to Orzammar sometime. He'd been so looking forward to coming here with everyone…

"Alistair…" Wynne beckoned him over. "Let me look at that cut-"

"Orzammar, Orzammar! Oi! Oi! Oi!"

Alistair turned. Merran and Leliana were skipping about the base of a Paragon bearing the largest battle axe he had ever seen. His two companions were…chanting. _I mean, really? _"She does find her fun, wherever she goes," Wynne shook her head at the – now trio as Zevran had joined the two singing women – "I must give her that."

The cut sealed on Alistair's jaw, Wynne picked up her skirts and hurried after the singing group, the four of them looking as overlarge amongst the dwarven population yet puny against their architecture as he felt. Chuckling, Alistair too began to follow when Jowan snagged his arm.

"Can we talk?" Jowan asked, wiping his hand on his trouser leg as if touching Alistair might cause him to contract a disease.

Eyebrows drawing downwards, Alistair gestured at their fast departing companions. "I'd rather not lose Merran in the crowd…" he said stubbornly. After the incident with Loghain's people he was really not in the mood for a heart to heart with Jowan, because he _knew _that tone in Jowan's voice quite well and he wasn't interested in discussing _that _particular topic with him.

"She's with Cullen and Morrigan," Jowan told him, causing Alistair to give him a sharp look. He knew quite well Cullen was at this very moment staking her territory by attempting to pee on every single Paragon statue she could before being chased off by the guard. Where _Morrigan _was lurking was anyone's guess in his opinion.

"This is about what happened on the mountain pass," Jowan hissed. "It's _important._"

"Which mountain pass are we talking about?" Alistair enquired.

"Are you being dense on purpose?" Jowan demanded. "Merran shouldn't be here."

Alistair stared. A Grey Warden _not_ be in Orzammar? "Why?" he snorted. "Not dressed right for the climate?"

"Merran and lyrium should not be _mixed!_" Jowan growled. "I would have thought it fairly obvious! Are you even listening to me?" He had to make another grab for Alistair's sleeve. "The sooner we get Merran out of here, the better!"

Folding his arms, Alistair glared at the pale Mage. He knew _quite _well how Merran and lyrium dealt with each other. So did his best armour by the way. For the record, Alistair _was _concerned, but he didn't appreciate being pulled up on it by Jowan – or anyone else for that matter – and be made out to seem like he didn't, in fact, give a nug's pimple.

"I'm trying," Jowan seethed, "to save Merran's life!"

"And Merran and I are trying to save Ferelden," Alistair stretched his spine just that little bit, looming over the slender Mage. "Why don't you just admit Merran might hurt you?" he taunted. "With her kooky, dangerous magic that you don't understand?"

"Oh and since when did _you _become the expert?" Jowan snapped.

"Aww…" Alistair sneered, "no more home-baked cookies for Jowy-kins..Poor widdle flower..."

"I don't know why I bothered," Jowan gave him a look as fiery as the rivers of lava surrounding them. "But then you'll just find some other _hapless_ Mage to harass, won't you? We're all interchangeable according to you _Mage-hunters…_"

Without realising it, Alistair had bunched up a fist and drawn his arm back, catching himself in time before he struck the annoying Mage. Leaning forward nose to nose, Alistair bit out aggressively, "What. Makes. You. Think. She's. _Replaceable_?"

"Who's replaceable?"

Having realised her two favourite men in Ferelden had not kept up with the others, Merran had fallen behind. From afar, it had looked like Jowan and Alistair were arguing. Up close, it looked even worse. Wedging herself between them, she attempted to prise them apart.

"Now, now, play nice boys…" she said with a grunt, finding herself being squashed when the two of them refused to disengage. "Listen…you…two…" Merran gritted her teeth and pushed to no avail. "Just found out – ow – King Endrin passed aw – ooch! – ay and the throne is being…what's the word? Composted? Confected?"

"Contested," Alistair attempted to bulldoze the Mage. Jowan was surprisingly heavier than he looked.

"Yeah – urgh – so, fighting's broken out over who gets to sit on the throne," Merran continued, jabbing Alistair and Jowan's bellybuttons with her elbows. "Treaty can't be honoured without an elected king - argh! Honestly! If you two don't separate and call it quits, I swear I'm going to turn you _both _into toads!"

Alistair and Jowan sprang apart so quickly their separation almost caused a sonic boom, though they did continue to eye each other warily for any sudden movements.

"Well now," Merran dusted off her hands. "That's better isn't it?" Holding up her hands palm side out, she continued. "The person we need to speak to is a gentleman called Stewart Bandelor. Didn't think Stewart was a dwarven name, but there it is. I'm not judging. Anyway – uh, uh!" Her fingers crackled when the two men swayed together. "According to the City Guard, he's the only chappie who can tell us how to go about getting our treaty stamped."

Alistair straightened, gesticulating at Merran. _See? _He glared at Jowan smugly. _Dedicated Grey Warden here! _

"First though," she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling, "We're off to Tapsters. _Dwarven _ale!" she giggled. "Ale!" she announced. "Made of _rock_!" Elbowing both men painfully in the gut, she giggled again. "Who's up for drinking me under the table?"

-oo-

Someone had made a comment about dwarven vomit. Had that been him? Alistair couldn't remember. Quite frankly, he'd be surprised if he remembered what legs were for. The events lingering in his brain were hazy and indistinct. It had started with a half-pint of lichen ale. He might have had another. He wasn't quite sure, wondering why the unhappy stream of recollections from the previous night consisted of questions such as _Where is my hat? Why am I holding this iguana? Since _when _did I get a tattoo and who the HECK is Rosie?_'

His aching ears heard someone groan. It sounded suspiciously like him…_Andraste's purple girdle_…_Did I…did I kiss a mabari? On a dare?_

Forcing himself to open his eyes, Alistair winced, finding the nearby lamp light painful. After a couple more seconds, he opened them again. _Tangled sheets…a bare leg. _His bare leg? Wait, no he knew that leg. A leg he'd seen many times bared through the torn pieces of a Mage's robe…His groan turned into a squeak, panicked musings about what _really _happened last night evicting the less worrisome questions about iguanas and tattoos from his throbbing head. He tried to turn, a wave of nausea assaulting him.

Eyes snapping closed, he groaned again and felt a stirring beside him. Cool fingers touched his forehead.

"Feeling seedy huh?" A sigh followed. "You really can't handle alcohol of any kind, can you?"

A spark of flame illuminated her face briefly before the tendril of flame left her fingers to light the candle above the bed. _Their _bed.

"Merran," he began, his voice sounding like the agonised death cry of a parched tortoise. "Whhhhhhhh..?"

Chuckling, she sat up, hair tumbling from her shoulders down her back. He couldn't help gaping. He'd never seen her with her hair down before and she looked so…weirdly different. Like…

"_Wow…"_

She shook her head at him, busying herself with some glassy objects on a side table. "Did you drink too much?" she began. "Yes," she answered for him. "Have you the Maker of all hangovers? Coincidentally," she grinned over her shoulder, "also yes." When she turned back she held a tumbler in one hand, waving it at him. "I know all! I see all!" she added dramatically.

"And…" She bent forward; Alistair wasn't even aware it was because she was extending the tumbler towards him because he was too busy attempting to…well _not_ look down her nightshirt at all, didn't matter if it was gaping, he wasn't trying to look at…her…He was too much of a _gentleman_.

Wasn't he?

"In case you're wondering what you're doing _here…" _Placing the tumbler on his bare chest, she sat – disappointingly – back. "I really have to say," Merran squinted at him, tucking her hair behind an ear. "You really are as heavy as you look."

She gestured towards the tumbler. "Drink. You're going to need to have your head on straight today."

Alistair threw an arm across his eyes. "I don't think I want to drink anymore," he whimpered. "I'd prefer to just die."

"You can't die," she told him simply. "That would _most_ inconvenient. Who am I going to hide behind when we're getting attacked by darkspawn?"

"Shale?" he asked, cracking open an eye.

"Shale?" Merran frowned. "Don't be silly, she'd get hurt."

She helped him sit upright; completely worth the head-spin and second wave of nausea because it necessitated Merran moving in closer, her arm cradling the back of his head. So when she pinched his nose and began tipping the contents of the tumbler into his surprised mouth, he choked; as much from the bitter taste of her potion as from being unable to breathe.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he gasped.

"Didn't you just tell me you'd rather die?" she reminded him.

"That's beside the…" He started to complain, when ice cold waves washed through him. His brain sprang alive, his vision cleared and his tongue abruptly stopped feeling like it should belong to a bronto. "...point."

When Merran clapped her hands together, it didn't make his head hurt. "See?" she chirped. "All better!" Bouncing off the bed, gave him such a nice view when her shirt rode up that he quite happily took another sip of the awful hangover cure.

"I'll run you a bath," she suggested. "Take a look at _this." _Stretching up gave Alistair an even nicer view of her thighs, though he frowned, noticing – even if they were quite faint – a fine tracery of blue-black across the tops of her legs. When she turned, he noted the spiderweb network of the Taint in her veins had advanced almost completely down her left leg. That. That was not good.

"…turn this handle here," her voice continued to chirp cheerfully, "And hurray! Water comes out, already heated. Ingenious huh? No buckets, blisters, messy sloshing or inconvenient puddles."

"Merran…"

"The inn had only three rooms available," she explained, bouncing over to sit beside him as the bath filled with frothy, scented water. "Boys in one room, girls in the other," she added. "Well, Sten and Zevran anyway. Jowan refused to come out from under the table last night and…" Reaching over, she brushed at his untidy hair. "And after you started projectile vomiting, _no one _wanted to be within spitting distance of you."

"Merran…"

"So!" She smacked his shoulder to hurry him out of bed. "The sooner you're ready, the sooner we can head up to the Assembly. Sounds like something you'd do in a fire drill, doesn't it? Anyway, Leli…" Her voice ended abruptly, the colour draining from her face and neck.

After several seconds of tense silence Alistair worriedly touched her hand, finding her fingers gripping the sheets, her knuckles white. "_Merran?_" He gave her a small shake. "Merr-"

"The Archdemon," she said hoarsely, her breath shuddering in her chest. When she looked at him her eyes were dark and difficult to read, even if the terror was quite clear in her voice.

"The Archdemon is _here._"

-oo-


	25. Deep Roads

-oo-

**Chapter 25 – Deep Roads**

It appeared inappropriate behaviour in a serious setting was contagious, if Alistair's own mind wanderings now were any indication. The morning's startling beginning had faded into insignificance. Once she'd collected herself, Merran had laughed at the idea of the Archdemon being here. Of _course _the Archdemon wasn't here, rampaging about the Orzammar Commons, harassing war widows and pickpocketing nug salesmen. That would be silly!

Alistair had not pursued the subject. He knew Merran's veneer of perky cheer hid a will as strong as Orzammar stone. If she insisted it was nothing, with that bright smile of hers, then the conversation had been closed. She'd moved on and so should he. He would however, continue to watch her…not that that was a particular _chore_. Or anything. Which brought him back to the inappropriate part of things.

"Ooh, scones! Why thank you, don't mind if I do!"

Merran was _very _watchable.

He couldn't help himself. What he should have been doing was involving himself in the very important discussions with the Assembly representative; a stern Elder by the name of Bandelor with the impressive beardage of a dwarf in a position of power. _But _his brain kept slipping off to have a bit of fun on its own. Perhaps it had been the thought that they'd shared a bed or, maybe…it was the prospect of…sharing a bed, hm…_again_ under more romantic circumstances (or at least when he wasn't unconscious after an evening of emptying out his bile ducts), that his mind kept…doing what it did…hauling up pictures in his head containing shapely expanses of caramel cream skin and waves of soft, chocolate-dark tresses instead of the very important negotiations being held at this very moment with the Assembly Steward.

Of course, it could be because he was hungry.

"I love scones! And these are dwarven ones? How wonderful! Ooh…cream, yes please!"

Alistair thumped the side of his head with the heel of his hand, trying to get his brain to pay attention, but every time his gaze fell on Merran chatting away with Steward Bandelor, he'd think of the nightshirt she'd worn; and how surprisingly _revealing _it had become after she'd been – accidentally, of course – splashed with water because he'd woken up with the Archdemon bellowing incoherently in his head while he'd accidently fallen asleep in the bath and she'd come over to check he wasn't drowning and…_Maker, _she'd looked_ brilliant_ sopping wet with water running down that kissable tract of neckline and _oh, there I go again._

So, looking at Merran he decided now, was not such a good idea._ I'll just look somewhere else._

Dwarven architecture. Yes. That would be safer. Very fascinating all those straight lines with not a curve any…where. Except that bit. The bit that looked like a voluptuous, _naked…_woman reclining on a…_Oh, why it looks like another dwarf…_Didn't expect _that_…_and it's back to the start…_

"Oh do I? I'm sorry, no need for a napkin, I'll just lick this up."

_Aaaand _stupidly, Alistair's curiosity got the better of him, catching Merran just at the part where the tip of her tongue darted out of her dainty little mouth to scoop up a stray glob of cream on her upper lip. Because of course, she completely mucked it up and missed and it took a great deal of practised willpower not to rush over there and lick it off himself and…What was _WRONG_ with him?When did he turn into…into _Zevran_?

"You know," Merran chuckled, "these scones are going to go straight to my hips. It's just as well I get quite a bit of exercise!" _Do not look at her hips! Do not look at…! Oh, sod it. _He gave up. _Just this time. The one time. _Maybe all he needed was to get it out of his system. And then he could…_Smack!_

"_Ow, _hey!"

Silence fell and heads turned in the crowded ante room where Steward Bandelor had agreed to speak to the Grey Warden party. The Senior Enchanter gave Alistair a look that told him quite clearly that while he might be her favourite Grey Warden, a clip around the ear would be forthcoming if he interrupted again. Warning given, discussion with the Assembly Steward continued.

Alistair dug his elbow into Jowan's side. "What was that?" he hissed in a low, angry voice. "Only _girls_ slap people."

"Stop. Ogling. Her!" Jowan ignored the insult and growled right back.

"I was…admiring the architecture near…near her…close by!" Alistair scowled.

"You don't seriously expect me to believe that, do you?" Jowan snorted.

"And…_anyway_," Alistair raised his chin. "She's our _leader. _I look to her for guidance."

"Really?" Jowan snorted again. "Aren't _you _the senior Grey Warden here?"

"I was…" Alistair pursed his lips, thinking. He wasn't going to explain himself to Jowan. He shouldn't have to explain himself to Jowan. It was none of his business. Then as another second passed, Morrigan brushed past the two men and Alistair noted _Jowan _wasn't exactly innocent of ogling charges either.

"I saw that." It was difficult for Alistair to keep the smugness out of his voice.

"You saw nothing," Jowan said, angling his head and pretending to listen in to the serious discussion between the dwarven administrator and Merran.

Alistair shook his head. "I _know_ what I saw," he taunted. "And I'm totally telling."

"Morrigan is a beautiful woman," Jowan passed off in as off-hand a way as he could manage and not _at all_ because she'd turned side-on to him, showing an impressive expanse of her assets. "Smart, talented, dedicated to her craft…"

"Oh…dedicated to her '_craft',_" Alistair air-quoted sarcastically. "Is that what you call exposing most of her…upper womanly bits? Huh." He shot a look of pure disgust at Jowan. "I find your sense of self-preservation sadly lacking."

"Your loss," Jowan grinned, unrepentant. "_I'm_ going to keep enjoying the view."

"And I'm going to keep enjoying being human, instead of a red smear across the landscape," Alistair retorted.

A long silence followed then Jowan asked: "So you _were _looking?"

"Oh my word, yes."

The talks appeared to have been concluded. Steward Bandelor bowed first to Merran, then Wynne and left the room, casting the two human men a somewhat odd look involving wiggled eyebrows and a wide grin that left both Jowan and Alistair deeply uncomfortable.

"I wonder what that was abou-" Jowan began when Wynne and Merran approached them.

"…suppose we have little choice but to divide into two separate groups…" the Senior Enchanter was saying gravely. "In order to cover as much ground as possible, given the small amount of time that we have."

Merran nodded. "We'll do that," she said quietly. "Leli…" Unhitching her money purse, the little mage passed it to the redhead. "Pick up what we'll need for the duration, would you?"

"Of course."

Leliana left; followed quickly by Zevran, who appeared to find the shopping request amusing for some reason. As Wynne exited the ante room she shook her head, muttering about being 'too old for this'; a cryptic comment, even if it was a very accurate one.

"Right." Merran crossed her arms at the two men. Jowan and Alistair looked at each other; like a couple of little boys who'd been caught playing conkers in the back of the classroom, instead of listening to the lesson. Alistair straightened his shoulders, fully expecting not to be able to answer if he was asked to summarise the discussion just held with the Steward. Instead, both he and Jowan were surprised when Merran commented on the architecture.

"Very clever, these dwarves," she added, looking first upwards at the carefully constructed ceiling then gifting both men a direct look that was saying something _important. _Alistair just wasn't too sure what. Morrigan too had been regarding the both of them with the beady stare of a woman that could change into a giant spider at will and tear a fully-grown man limb from limb in mere seconds.

"It was very kind of Steward Bandelor to allow us use of this Listening Room," Merran tilted her head to the side in the way that Alistair associated with an impending storm of screaming, crying, painful death and grown men crying for their mothers. "Wasn't it?"

"Uh, yes?" Alistair began when Jowan groaned beside him, sinking his forehead into his hand.

"Oh Maker…"

Smiling sweetly, she pointed at Jowan. "_He _gets it."

"I shall wait outside, shall I?" Morrigan piped up. "Sharpening…something…" and she left.

"Oh, _Maker…_" Jowan moaned again.

"What?" Alistair asked, perhaps unwisely.

"This room is a _Listening_ Room," Jowan first grabbed Alistair's sleeve, then slapped the Grey Warden on the arm. "Argh, you're so thick!" he added. "Also known as a 'whispering galley'? Good grief, you idiot! Do I have to spell it out?" Jowan smacked Alistair again. "Everyone could hear everything!"

"Every whaa...?" Alistair began and _then_ it sunk in. "Oh. Oh…nug nuts."

Merran tilted her head to the side and regarded Alistair with a smile that terrified him more than the thought of Morrigan turning into a giant spider and ripping him limb from limb in mere seconds. Lowering her eyelids, that smile turned unexpectedly…_warm_, raking her gaze from the top of his head to the toes of his shiny, metal-shod boots. She might have used magic, he wasn't sure. All he knew was by the time she'd completed her assessment, his spine was fizzing, his face was glowing redder than a spot on date night and if his armour were any tighter, it would be steaming at the seams.

"Hm," she purred at to Jowan. "Trust me; I think I get the better deal here," and on saying that swept out of the room, Jowan sputtering – just as red faced - in her wake.

-oo-

Clasping the slate to her chest Merran paced about the room, jumpy and agitated after returning from the Dwarven Assembly. Sending the others away had been her first thought. Putting the rest – Alistair and Jowan – offside had been a close second.

The lyrium in Orzammar was too much.

Rubbing at the skin on her arms sent sparks into the air. Every hair strand on her head felt as if they were burning her scalp. Dwarves didn't just sell lyrium. They put it into just about everything; from their weaponry to their armour, even their ale. It was in the air, the water…Wynne, Jowan and Morrigan felt it too. How Wynne shed her excess mana, Merran did not know. Morrigan spent as much time as she could in animal form. Jowan…well, Jowan had never been a particularly powerful magic user and he was enjoying the extra boost. Merran on the other hand…

_I need to kill something, or blow something up or…before I hurt someone…_

It never even occurred to her to ask Alistair to help; using his Templar skills to drain her mana. She was too afraid she would hurt him first. It had been a near thing after the meeting with Steward Bandelor. Merran could feel her magic slipping even then and if she hadn't left when she did…but she had to wait for the others. She couldn't leave them behind.

Could she?

"Oh, this is too much!" The slate went flying into the air. One moment it was a miniature comet, the next a basket of flowers then a surprised lizard that scampered off into a crack in the wall.

_I have to do something. Now. _

Leliana was just entering the guest quarters of the inn when Merran emerged into the shared space. The redhead halted; mouth agape then backed off hurriedly, unable to stand the heat pouring off the mage's small form. She was _glowing. _

"Going to the Deep Roads to find stuff to blow up!" Merran said between gritted teeth, walking straight through the door of the Inn as in the instant she approached it, it was an unseasonal shower of leaves, then a small volcano then finally, a very large barrel of single malt whiskey.

"Don't wait up for me!" Merran called over her shoulder.

"Where is the Templar?" Leliana found Zevran's hand on her arm, his head cocked to the side listening for the surprised shouts and squeals outside as Merran – and her magic - ploughed through the market. "Find him and then meet me at the entrance to the Deep Roads."

Leliana nodded obediently, rushing out of the Inn without even stopping to offload her shopping. Her target was the Shaperate; the dwarven archives where Wynne and Alistair had mentioned they'd had some interest in. In the meantime Zevran headed to the markets; not after Merran directly, but to a specialist armourer first. He found Shale on the way through, the golem proving an effective crowd breaker when he'd finished with his business. Few stood in the stone golem's way especially when she announced in her grainy, bellowing voice: "I'm well overdue for a good bout of squishing!"

With Shale clearing a path through the bewildered crowds, Zevran switched routes to the other end of Orzammar; the entrance to the Deep Roads. Not that he needed a battering ram, or directions. All Zevran needed to do was follow the trail of scorched rock and confused dwarves wondering whether they had in fact been attacked by a walking ball of fire or if the experience was the after effect of a funny bit of lichen cheese they'd eaten. The same applied to the guardsmen at the gate; their armour looking as though they'd already had their encounter with a stone golem, which of course, they hadn't.

But were about to.

"Did you see a young woman pass through here recently?" Zevran asked them. "About this high, dark of hair and uh…aflame?"

The nearest guard, who'd been attempting to assist his colleague remove his crushed helm responded first. "So it wasn't a bit of bad lichen cheese I'd had then," he stated. "Thought I might be seeing things, 'specially since that Kondrat fool was with her."

"Kondrat?" Zevran enquired. The name sounded familiar…was he not the cuckolded husband of the missing Paragon of Smithery? The one dwarven nobles had engaged the Wardens to find? _Now, this is interesting…_

"Does it matter?" Shale sniffed, peering through the broken gates to the Deep Roads beyond. "As long as the Mage leaves us enough juicy darkspawn to squish."

"I am sure you will get your chance, my pulverising friend," Zevran assured the golem. "And this 'Kondrat' fellow," Zevran enquired of the guards oh so casually. "He was armed, yes?"

With an audible pop, the helm finally came free of the soldier's head and the guardsman turned to answer wryly: "Ever hear of a dwarf that _wasn't _armed, Surfacer?" The guardsman gave Zevran a sharp look. "You don't look like a Grey Warden."

"You have good observation skills," Zevran replied amiably, wishing the others would arrive soon. "What else can you tell me about this Kondrat fellow?"

"Only that he's rarely ever sober," the guardsman snorted. "Just as well," he glanced nervously at the Deep Roads entrance. "The nug-licker would've needed to be drunk, the way that human kinda…sucked him in on the way through."

"Wasn't he screaming?" the guard whose head had just been liberated asked. He took the opportunity to shake it, sadly. "And that's the last time we'll see of him."

"Well, it'll save the City Guard having to scrape his drunken arse off the pavement every day," the first guard scoffed back. Zevran, luckily, was spared having to continue the effort of polite conversation by the arrival of Alistair and the others; Wynne draped most unceremoniously, but rather decoratively over Sten's shoulder.

"How long ago did she pass through here?" Alistair asked, not even out of breath considering the heavy plate he wore. "We should head in immediately," he suggested.

"At the speed your gal was travelling," the guard told them, "I'd say best of luck catching up." He pointed to the scorch marks on the ground. "You see that mark there? She made that."

Zevran rubbed his chin speculatively. "This could be a problem, no?"

"No, it isn't," Alistair pushed past him, when the sound of huffing heralded the arrival of Jowan; clutching at his chest and red-faced with the effort of a sprint in heavy robes.

"Andraste's pickled herring…" Jowan managed to gasp. "Don't you people _ever_ stop running?"

"We do not appear to be running now," Zevran pointed out.

Jowan ignored the elf, pouncing on Alistair as he headed closer to the entrance. "I told you didn't I?" he growled breathlessly. "The lyrium would get to her sooner or later! And you wouldn't listen!"

"Aren't you the one who keeps reminding me I'm Templar-trained?" Alistair raised his eyebrows. "Or have you conveniently forgotten? Mana draining; magic neutralisation…It's all part of our friendly, _reliable_, non-friend-betraying Templar service."

"How stupid of me," Jowan pouted sourly. "To forget you had _other _uses besides as a hat stand."

"Stupid of you?" Shale interrupted the two human males with a thundering stamp of her foot. "Who's the stupid one I might ask, when the lot of you are standing about…flapping your gums while my mage is rampaging through the Deep Roads on her own? At this rate, there won't be _any _darkspawn left to crush and if that happens, I'll be very, very annoyed." The golem's fiery eyes glowed sun-bright. "And you _don't _want that."

-oo-

Oghren of House Kondrat thought he could probably get used to this…after a few barrelfuls of the strongest dwarven ale he could find. Every time his legs started to slow and his pace flagged, the mage would send a wave of energy towards him and before he could take another breath, the walls would be zipping past; his moustache braids smoking from friction with the air.

The two of them had swept through the tunnels and ruined roads of the old lost Thaigs like a cyclone. Oghren had caught sight of a few clumps of unwise darkspawn – now mere smears on a cave wall – as they'd passed through. The mage, a female human not much taller than himself and skinnier than a starved nug still glowed so bright his eyes hurt.

She'd stopped again to check the tattered old map she'd obtained from one of the Orzammar nobles; getting her bearings. While she perused the map, Oghren used the time to try to catch his breath, bringing up his hands barely in time to shield his ears from the noise of exploding rock as she blasted her way through yet another dead end. No alternative routes for her, nuh uh. If she wanted to go _that _way and there was no road, she'd _make _a road. If he wasn't so pants wettingly terrified, Oghren was sure he would have declared his undying love to her by now.

"What are these things on the wall?" she asked, as they stepped through the new 'doorway'.

It was the first time he'd heard her speak; her voice eerie in the dusty and dim passage. Oghren blinked the grit from his eyes, following the direction her finger pointed. His mouth curled downwards unhappily. "Can't say…" he began. They looked like some kind of…fleshy sac being extruded from the walls of the ruins. "Never seen the sodding things before."

The mage merely nodded, at first reaching out her hand towards the wall growths, then snatching them back. "Looks like…" she began and shook her head furiously.

"Before I forget…" Oghren cleared his throat as the mage continued past the growths. This time at a more normal pace. "Name's Oghren of House Kondrat." As she didn't stop, Oghren limped after her. "Just wanted to thank yer for showin' me a great time."

This time she did stop, swivelling to look at him as though realising he was there. "Oh," she said, large human eyes wide. "Oh my…" she added faintly. Placing a hand on the top of his head sent a jolt of lightning through him that made his back teeth ache and his hair stand on end. "You're a dwarf…!"

"Was the last time I looked, kiddo…" Oghren began when a _third _voice spoke.

_"__First day, they come and catch everyone."_

"I'm Merran Am…" She stopped abruptly and bent down. "What did you say?"

Retrieving what looked like an axe from a nearby, desiccated dwarf corpse, Oghren looked about the empty corridors. "Wasn't _that_, I can tell you now."

_"__Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat."_

"Sounds like…" Merran looked one way, then the other. "Sounds like…_poetry._"

_"__Third day, the men are all gnawed on again._ _Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate."_

"Don't do poetry," Oghren gripped the axe handle more tightly. "Do darkspawn do that?" he asked. "Interior design _and _poetry? Never knew the sodding things were this cultured," he said, viewing a pile of bones 'arranged' into the vague shape of a dragon with distaste.

_"__Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn."_

"Sounds like a woman's voice," Merran went on.

"At _that_ time of the month…" Oghren added, keeping close – but not too close – to the mage.

_"__Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams._ _Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew."_

"Oh!" Merran exclaimed. "That's just not nice!" Grim determination turning her features to stone, the mage's hands crackled with blue-white energy. "When I find out what's going on, I'm going to put a stop to it!"

"Well, you go do that, Mage…" Oghren raised his free hand in an encouraging fist pump. "While I uh…bring up the rear," he suggested. "Yah never know what's going to attack us from behind."

The two turned a corner. This was some kind of mausoleum, if the sarcophagi set into the walls were any indication. The space here was wider, tiled with polished, blood-red stone, now dotted with piles of dwarven remains, filth and more of the bulbous flesh sacs. And crouching part-way behind a cluster of debris was what Merran thought at first was a spider…until it spoke…

"_Now she does feast, as she's become the beast…But I…I will not become…Ancestors forgive me-"_

"Hespith?" Oghren suddenly exclaimed. "Stone-cursed! What the nug crud happened here? Where's Branka?"

The creature on the floor whimpered and shuffled sideways fearfully, first afraid to look at these newcomers, then staring in disbelief through bloodshot, bruised eyes. "They…they have not changed you! How can that be?" And then her gaze fell on Merran and she recoiled. "No…you…you have been touched by the darkness. And yet…and yet…you remain…whole."

Her fists balling by her sides, Merran took a tentative step forward. This was the worst case of the Taint that she'd ever seen and yet there was something different about this woman Oghren had called Hespith. Something very wrong.

"I'm a Grey Warden," she stated. As she did, she raised her staff, the end ballooning with fire.

Oghren made a grab for her arm. "What the stone are you doing?" he demanded.

"She is tainted beyond help," Merran whispered. "It would be a mercy to put her out of this misery."

"Think we might squeeze her for information first?" Oghren asked. "Just sayin'…"

The ball of fire left the Merran's staff, hitting the far wall with explosive force.

"And uh," Oghren added, both impressed and annoyed. "Might also be a good idea keepin' it quiet. Not sayin' I don't have faith in your ability for wanton acts of extreme violence and darkspawn butt-wipin' but…mebbe not such a good idea to draw too much attention to us. Also just sayin'," he added quickly.

Her response was not to calmly walk on while he tapped Hespith for information, but to blast another hole in the other wall. Oghren thought he heard the unpredictable Mage laugh. "I hope there are traps," she said, glowing again. "I _like _traps…"

_Hoo! And I _like _this girl!_ Oghren blinked at her, striding forward to Hespith.

-oo-

"The mage did _all_ this?"

The trail of destruction Merran had left behind was...thorough. So hot did her passing burn that the walls were still smoking, the shapes of varying darkspawn scorched into all sides. Even the ceiling.

"Impressive," Shale added with more than a hint of pride in her gravelly voice. "I knew there was a reason why I liked her. Mindless destruction is always such an endearing trait in a woman."

"Is this…_diamond?_" Zevran touched the wall in his enthusiasm to investigate, hastily withdrawing his hand to suck on his fingers when the stone burned him. "We should definitely return this way for some of these gemstones."

Standing on the edge of the approach to a set of enormous doors that rivalled the gateway to Orzammar, Alistair and Jowan raised eyebrows at each other, each man sharing the same thought: this was _powerful _magic. _And a lot of mana to drain, _Alistair frowned. Enough power to destroy an Archdemon, he asked himself?

It was as if merely thinking about the Archdemon summoned the beast; an ear-deafening roar rising up through the chasm to their left. Scampering back into the tunnel, the companions pressed themselves up against the wall, or as much as the heated rock would allow. Only Shale stood defiant at the entrance, Alistair slightly behind. A rush of hot, sulphurous air and another screech preceded the appearance of a dark, winged shape. With a bellow of blue flame and a flap of its mighty wings, the enormous dragon circled the area once then alighted on a mountain of broken rock; the remains of the immense bridge once spanning the wide chasm.

Searing pain made Alistair clutch at his head; the Archdemon's voice calling him to follow, urging him towards the edge; its grip on his brain like a band of ice. His legs began to move on their own, causing him to bump against Shale's back. He squeezed his eyes closed and using the same technique taught to him to resist magical mind control, reasserted his will on his recalcitrant limbs.

"Alistair…" he heard Wynne call out in concern. He waved her off, straightening.

"It's calling the darkspawn to the surface," he explained to the others, his mouth set into a grim line.

"Andraste's mercy…" Wynne murmured, clutching at the pendant at her throat. "I hope we will not be too late."

"We will be," Jowan snorted. "If ickle-Alistair-kins decides to have another 'episode'." He pushed at Shale's stony elbow. "Can we get going now _please?_ Before the world as we know it comes to an end?"

-oo-

_Too much lyrium…_Merran giggled inanely, stumbling on the broken pavement. Her shirt was torn and bloodied; her hair, completely unwound from her braid hung in dusty clumps about her bruised face. Oghren rolled through the opening after her; coughing the last of the gaseous fume from his lungs. Merran extended her hand to the air, congratulating it. "Gosh darn thinking closing those doobie whacker thingamybobs!" she said laughingly, then peered at the ring of glowing blue stones. "Lookee lookee! Unprocessed lyrium ore! My favourite!"

_Way too much…_Merran's legs turned to tangled strings beneath her and she fell chin first right onto the pillar of lyrium. Oghren, by now having cottoned onto the fact that the Mage turned funny around Bluestone, extracted her and set her upright, dragging her unresisting body as far away from the lyrium as possible.

"The pretty ones can never resist old Oghren," he chuckled, when Merran threw an arm around his hairy neck.

Laughing, Merran turned and narrowed her eyes. Had that stone head suspended above the podium just _turned to look at them?_ No, couldn't have been…She blasted it to dust anyway. One could never tell, then hugged the top of Oghren's fluffy orange head. "I've always wanted a dwarf," she told him. "Can I teach you to play fetch?" she asked. "Play dead for me?"

Oghren chuckled again. "Eh heh, it's a compliment Warden, but I don't think you're my type. Think I prefer my wimmin' with shorter legs. Not too sure what to do with the dangly ones you have here…" He stopped dead in his tracks, the sight that met his eyes rendering him speechless for a full minute. "Ancestors take me…" he growled. "So _this _is what Hespith meant."

"Wha…?" Merran squinted at the blobby, mottled, tentacled creature nesting in what appeared to be a pile of rotting corpses, dung and blood. She pinched her nose. The smell was _awful; _her stomach giving a warning wrench. She barely extricated herself to spill the last of the contents of her stomach onto the stone, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Carrots…" she murmured dizzily. "I don't remember eating carrots…urk!"

"Warden!"

Merran heard Oghren's cry upside down; a stinking leathery rope the width of a baby seal had wrapped around her waist and dragged her sideways, then bounced her on her head, then threw her crashing against the cavern wall. _Ooh…_she scrambled to her knees. _OOH…I am so. Mad. Right. Now…_She didn't have to concentrate hard, just a _little _and…POP!

"Ooh! How pretty!"

_Leliana? What is she doing here? _

Slumping backwards, Merran's head connected with stone. Stars speckled in her eyesight, her vision blurring, now flashing black and red. What _had _been a Broodmother, was now a very large pink petunia in a blue ceramic pot.

"Merran!" It was Jowan's voice this time, but she couldn't _see _him, no matter how she shook her head or squinted or rubbed at her eyes. She felt her mana drain away; gently at first, then in a sudden rush. It felt like all the pressure in her body had been released. The uncomfortable buzzing ceased, along with the painful prickling at the base of her neck.

"Merran! Say something! Anything! Tell me I'm not turning into one of Wynne's trashy novel heroes!"

"If I did, I'd be lying, Jowan…" Merran chuckled. She extended her hands, fingers touching skin and stubble. She felt so cold. So very cold.

"How many fingers am I holding up, child?" she heard Wynne ask.

Merran scowled. Shaking her head made it hurt too much. "Can't see anything," she said.

She heard Wynne harrumph in dismay. "Just as I thought," was her diagnosis. "You're in the second stage of lyrium poisoning."

"What's the last?" someone – possibly Oghren – asked.

"Death," was the Senior Enchanter's brisk reply.

"Where's Oghren?" Merran sat up, jabbing the air with her hands. "Is he all right?"

"Still here and in one piece more or less," Oghren rumbled nearby. "Can't say the same about my beard though," he added. "By the Paragon, is she always like this? Damn near cleared out every darkspawn and pissed-off dwarf spirit in the place! Love whatcha do, kiddo."

Merran grinned, then just as quickly frowned. Where was Alistair? He would be here with the others surely. He wouldn't let Wynne and Leliana come down on their own, even with Shale and Sten. Cullen was here…she could feel something warm and soggy and furry resting in her lap. She should be able to feel Alistair through their shared taint but _couldn't._

"Well," Wynne huffed. "No one is dying on _my_ watch. Certainly not today and definitely not _now._"

"Then perhaps, this may be of assistance…"

The scent of cinnabar and sandalwood tickled Merran's nose. Zevran. How did the assassin always manage to smell so clean wherever he went?

"What is this, Zevran?" Wynne asked.

"Ah…It is a suit," Zevran explained. "Almost impermeable. I remember on the Antivan coast the pearl divers would wear something similar." Merran heard a metallic clanging noise. "The head piece includes this very clever breathing apparatus, see? Of course…" Merran could hear the cheeky smirk in Zevran's voice. "It would mean we would have to strip our lovely Mage naked first; to remove any traces of lyrium from her…"

He stopped at the low growl from Cullen. There was the softest of shuffling noises as Zevran backed off. "Ah yes well, and it would be appropriate to leave that in your very capable hands, Senior Enchanter…"

"Zevran," Wynne sighed. "This is brilliant. I could almost kiss you."

"In that case, my lips await your pleasure."

"Wynne…" Merran began, worried by the continuing absence of Alistair, when an unfamiliar voice spoke in the darkness.

"And what is _this_?"

Merran tried to stand. The voice sounded oddly like…well, like _Flemeth_.

"Some poor, impressionable fool sent by even _bigger_ fools?" the voice continued mockingly. "Or simply a gaggle of followers with no sense of smell? It would certainly explain their willingness to bear with the stench of Oghren!"

There was a grunt from the subject of her insult. "Branka!" Oghren exclaimed. "What the stone happened to you? What did you do to Hespith? To the rest of our House?"

"They followed me of their own free will," the voice retorted, then paused. "Oh, I _see…_" she sneered. "That old bag of bones Endrin Aeducan turned up his toes and now _you _need me to help play your political games. Well, I'm not so _inclined,_" she stated stubbornly. "I'm too close to finding the Anvil and there's nothing to stop me now!"

"Branka!" Oghren pleaded. "Has the Deep Roads addled your mind? Where's the brilliance I fell in love with? The girl whose genius you could see as soon as she opened her mouth to speak?"

"Urgh Oghren," Branka spat. "And I thought you couldn't get any more sickening. It appears I was wrong."

"Hey!" Merran worked herself upright – with the aid of Cullen – "That's my dwarf you're talking about!" She waggled a threatening finger, then found herself being turned into the right direction. "We are Grey Wardens on important Grey Wardening business and while I can't think of anything particularly threatening to threaten you with right now, when I _do, _you had better watch out!"

"Nice goin' Warden," Oghren nudged her approvingly. "Next time though, use longer words and shorter sentences. Maybe drool a little. Think you're insane, that'll work…heh."

"You people are amusing," Branka sneered, "But I have better things to do than banter with a bunch of touched in the head idiots. So I think I'll just let you die now…"

What followed was a rocky scrape. Lots of rocky scrapes, like the sound of Shale stretching but larger and…with lots of Shales. Lots and _lots_ of Shales…

-oo-


	26. Elf Intervention

A/N: With apologies to PJ's LoTR fans…

-oo-

**Chapter 26 – Elf Intervention**

_She'd run away…!_

Alistair peered down the tunnel. Why would someone just say 'Ah-ha! Take that!' and just scarper? It was just _rude _was what it was, especially since nothing seemed to be happening. What in Andraste's smoking stockings had that stone-grinding sound been? The tunnel collapsing? Alistair scowled; shooting an annoyed look into the dark then tentatively putting his hand up to the tunnel wall. It seemed solid enough…

"What are you looking for?" Jowan joined him at the mouth of the tunnel.

"The odd dwarf woman " Alistair explained, inclining his chin at the tunnel. "She ran off that way."

Jowan looked down the tunnel too. He'd had enough of dark places and cramped, dank caves to last him a lifetime and he wasn't keen to plunge headlong into another one, particularly if there was likely to be some kind of ambush at the end of it. Clearly, _he _was looking forward to being attacked.

He glared at Alistair.

"What?" Alistair directed his scowl at Jowan. "What have I done now?"

"I don't know," Jowan muttered darkly. "I'm being pre-emptive."

Alistair leaned against the rock wall. "Doesn't the lyrium bother you?" he asked Jowan quietly, looking over his shoulder to check the proceedings on the other side of what used to be the Broodmother (and was now a very large flower pot). Zevran was assisting Wynne to put Merran into the leather suit thingy and while it _appeared _that the elf was being helpful, he couldn't help but feel that Zevran was touching Merran a little bit more than might be considered necessary.

"It does," Jowan told him, following Alistair's gaze. "Just not as much as Merran." He too frowned at the assassin. "The sooner I'm out of here, the happier I'll be though." He paused, giving Alistair a very direct look. "I want to have a word with you."

"Oh what?" Alistair rolled his eyes. "_Again? _Can't you just write me a list or something?"

Jowan glanced back, this time at Morrigan. Her attention was on Zevran too, her golden eyes narrowed suspiciously. When she realised she was being watched, she redirected that look at the two men lurking at the mouth of the tunnel. Jowan nudged Alistair to step a little further away into it, Jowan putting aside his dislike of unknown, dangerous dark places for the moment so the two of them could speak privately.

After a while, Jowan halted, sure that the two of them were far enough out of hearing. "I don't like the elf," he stated.

"Does anybody?" Alistair retorted.

"_Every_one likes the elf," Jowan said with a shrug. "He's likeable."

"No," Alistair retained his stubborn stance. "He's not."

"_Merran_ likes him," Jowan pointed out. "What's more; what are you going to do about it?"

"What am I going to…?" Alistair began then paused, the scowl back, "What am I, her nanny?" he asked. "_Am _I supposed to do anything about it? Especially since ooh, bad Templar, oogie boogie 'stay away from Merran or I'll be cross at you'…" Alistair lowered his hands. Jowan's serious expression had not changed while he'd wiggled his fingers at him. "Has Merran ever told you you have no sense of humour?" he asked.

"That's not what I mean and you know it-"

"_My name is Caridin. Once, long ago, for more time than I would like to recall, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar…"_

"Did you hear that?" Alistair asked.

"What?" Jowan stiffened, surreptitiously checking the tunnel walls for the tell-tale blue glow of lyrium. If they were about to go into a fight, he wanted to be prepared. "Do you mean that creepy, disembodied voice in the darkness?"

"_... If you seek the Anvil, then you must care about my story, or be doomed to relive it."_

"Yeah, that one," Alistair confirmed, drawing his sword.

Flickers of light came to life a little further on; illuminating an enormous cavern set on the precipice of a deep river of red lava. A row of stone golems made up an avenue of sorts from the entry to a carved podium set on the highest point of the cavern slope. These were not Shale-sized golems, but statues of dwarven proportions. Massive, huge, imposing…and at the end of their honour row was the largest golem either man had ever seen; one made of metal.

"No…idea…" Jowan said slowly, mentally calculating the odds of these golems coming to life and not liking the numbers he came up with.

_"Though I have made many things in my time, I earned my fame and my status based on the creation of a single item: The Anvil of the Void."_

Jowan and Alistair looked at each other. Alistair leaned over and whispered "Should we be taking notes?" he enquired. "Do you think there'll be a test later?"

Jowan gaped then shrugged. He really had no idea; torn between an extreme aversion to injury, pain and blood loss and the pursuit of unique – and possibly magical – discovery.

_"…It allowed me to forge a man of steel or stone."_ The voice calling itself Caridin appeared to be coming from the metal golem, which was a relief in a way. If it was talking, Jowan figured, then it wasn't trying to kill them.

"_As flexible and clever as any soldier and in an army; invincible. With all things however, there was a cost. No mere Smith, no matter how skilled, can create life. To give my Golems that life, I had to take it from elsewhere…"_

"I really don't like where this is going," Alistair whispered, keeping a weather eye on the unmoving stone golems. He unhitched his shield and set it at the ready, thinking to himself a shield of metal versus a walking mountain of stone was going to be like the biggest, most violent game of Rock, Paper, Scissors _ever._ "Hey," he asked, just in case; "what trumps metal by the way?"

"Ssh!"

_"I had only intended to make a few, using volunteers," _Caridin's voice turned even more melancholy; a tone the metallic echoing voice was perfect for._ "But my King was not satisfied. Soon a river of blood flowed out from this place…"_

"I should have set up a wager," Alistair sighed. "I saw that coming a mile away."

"Shut _up_!"

_"Finally,"_ the sadness in Caridin's voice was so palpable, Jowan found himself tearing up. "_It was too much. I refused to make any more and for my disobedience King Valtor had me put to the Anvil next."_

"Huh," Alistair crouched into battle stance. "_That_ would have _hurt_."

_"The blow of the hammer opened my eyes,_" continued Caridin's lecture. "And _we have remained entombed here ever since where I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil as alas, no Golem can touch it."_

What followed was a deep, long silence, broken only by a rude snort from Alistair. "Well," he exhaled. "Bit inconvenient for them, isn't it?" He jerked his chin at the metal golem.

"Will you shut up and listen?"

Alistair rolled his eyes. "You're not serious?" he said in a bored voice. "Haven't you been long enough in our company to figure out what comes next? No? Well, this is the part where we get to find out that in order to put an end to this fellow's centuries of misery, we have to…I don't know…destroy this Anvil-thing. Or something."

"That's just stupid!" Jowan exclaimed. "Who would be dumb enough to-"

"No! The Anvil is _mine_!" Branka appeared as though out of thin air. Rushing into the cavern she knocked Jowan aside; her battle-axe held high as she advanced rapidly on Caridin. "No one will take it from me!"

"You!" Caridin pleaded at Alistair. "Destroy the Anvil! Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!"

Alistair tossed a smug look at Jowan. "See?" he said. "Told you!"

"Caridin? The Paragon Smith…alive?"

Alistair partially turned his head. The mad dwarf Branka had disappeared again and no doubt she would reappear somewhere unexpected while they were standing around chatting. He had to admit however, it was about time the others arrived. Though…he blinked in dismay at the sight of Merran in the suit of leather; looking more like a wilted stick of brown celery, than a formidable magical battering ram.

"Hah!" Caridin exclaimed. "There is a voice I recognise…Shayle of the House Cadash. You were one of the finest warriors in King Valtor's army and the only woman to volunteer to become a golem."

Shale looked as confused as a person made out of rock could look. "I…I do not remember," she said. "I was dwarf? A fleshy, fluid-filled creature like these pockets of pus and dribble I travel with? How…awful!"

"Uh…" Alistair stepped forward, raising his sword and shield as the stone golems – predictably – came alive. "Hate to break up this touching reunion, but…fight time!"

"Shayle!" Caridin called out urgently. "You fought to destroy the Anvil! Don't let it become a tool once more to enslave hundreds! Help me to destroy it, please!"

Branka ducked and wove about her stone golems, swinging her axe and engaging Alistair in a battle he did not expect from someone nearly half his height. "You would listen to someone who has been stewing in his own madness for a thousand years?" Branka cackled mid-swing, unnerving him. "Help _me_ and you will have an army like you have never seen!"

"Ach," Oghren called proudly as he ran from a golem pursuing him. "That's my girl. She was always such a focussed little career lady!"

Then to his horror, Alistair spied Merran approaching Caridin. Too busy trying to stay alive himself, he could not hear the conversation between the two and Branka was doing her hardest to keep him from getting anywhere near Caridin.

"Not while I still live!" Branka screeched at him. "Not while I still live!"

And then…Merran removed her helmet.

-oo-

Lying on his back, Jowan breathed the bone-achingly cold air on the mountain top gratefully. As the snow beneath him melted, it wicked up through his cloak and many layers to his undergarments. It would be deeply uncomfortable later, but right now, he did not care. Orzammar, as life experiences went, had been amazing, but now that he'd been there, he had no desire to ever go back. Between the lyrium being in _everything_ and the constant feeling of being buried alive, quite frankly he preferred the windowless, prison-like environment of the Circle Tower.

"Just need another moment, Mage…" Nearby, their newest acquisition Oghren lay curled up in foetal position on the snowy ground, refusing to look skywards. "Until that thing up there stops wantin' to swallow me whole…"

Jowan sighed and went back to staring up at the stars. _He _was grateful, as least.

"You'll feel better if you take a few calming breaths of air," Wynne suggested primly, looking as though she would _prefer_ to give him a swift kick instead.

"Can I rest my head on your bosom while I do it?" the dwarf asked.

"What is this fascination with my bosom?" Wynne demanded crossly. "There really is nothing special about it!"

"Oh I beg to disagree," Zevran called from the other side. Jowan grimaced…then stuffed snow into his ears. Talk about the Senior Enchanter's bosom was making him ill.

"Ooh!" Leliana's voice managed to penetrate the snow. It had that _quality. _"Clever Schmooples! Whoosa smart little nuggly-wuggly?"

Jowan's grimace deepened. It seemed Merran had single-handedly solved the dwarven succession problem, improved the crime-rate in Orzammar, found lost boys for their Mothers, reunited a family divided by caste and oh…recruited another follower and found some kind of pet thing for Leliana; a cross between a naked rat and a blighted rabbit. _If we ever get stuck for options,_ Jowan closed his eyes briefly_,__ we can always eat the thing. _That was certainly what the dwarves did with the…nugs.

"You are! Oh _yes_ you are!"

With a sigh, Jowan began to gather up more snow to put in his ears. He'd begun to stuff them again when a large shadow blocked out his view of the stars. Worse, Alistair settled himself next to him, as if he might be welcome or…something. Which he was not.

"So," Alistair said, drawing up his knees and resting his forearms along the top. "It's the Elves next, I guess. And the uh…the Witch…"

Jowan rolled his eyes, noticing a metallic tapping noise. Alistair was doing that thing he did with his hands whenever he was nervous or anxious or just being _weird; _steepling his hands and tapping his forefingers together. _Maker, _it was irritating…then it occurred to Jowan: "She didn't ask you to go, did she?"

Alistair looked for a moment as if he was about to deny the claim but instead shook his head.

"So who did she ask?" Jowan frowned. It certainly hadn't been _him,_ so…If _he_ hadn't been chosen to head off into the Korcari Wilds in pursuit of Flemeth, _Alistair_ certainly should have. Fellow Grey Warden and all of that, at the very least. "Sten?" he ventured. "Cullen of course, right?"

"She asked the _elf_," Alistair said sourly.

"Gah!" Jowan sat up, located Zevran and scowled at the man. The fact that the blonde assassin was at this moment sitting far too close to Merran on a log whispering something most likely inappropriate into her ear made the picture even worse.

"Morrigan doesn't want her to face Flemeth again, were you aware?" Jowan said quietly. "She thinks Flemeth's _interest_ in Merran could put her in far greater danger than Merran realises."

Alistair nodded again, glaring at the two on the log.

"Did the two of you quarrel?"

"No!" the Grey Warden denied hotly. "Of course not. We're good," he stated. "We're goo…" The two men watched as Zevran yawned, stretched his arms and oh so casually dropped one around Merran's shoulder.

"I have a sudden urge to discuss something terribly _important _with Grey Warden Merran Amell, don't you?" Alistair growled.

Jowan nodded curtly. "_Urgently."_

In tandem Mage and Grey Warden stood and marched to the log where Zevran and Merran sat chatting. There was a moment when Alistair and Jowan bumped shoulders; a brief tussle to determine who would have Zevran-kicking priority. Alistair easily won. Attempting to sit in a space barely two centimetres across sent Merran flying off the log but Alistair merely reached down, plucked Merran off the ground and settled her beside him where he made a point of putting his own arm about Merran and pulling her in close. Jowan on the other hand, had little other choice but to sit on the other side of Zevran, which he did so with a resentful huff of his own.

"Well now," Alistair began with forced cheer. "_This_ is cosy. Isn't this cosy, Jowan?"

"Like one, big, happy, _cosy_ family," Jowan agreed with a growl. He folded his arms, purposely jabbing Zevran quite hard in the side with his elbows and quite happy to resort to magical intervention, if needed.

"I agree…Very nice..." Completely unperturbed, Zevran leaned into Jowan's side, turning the tables on the oh-so-obvious ploy to separate himself from his pretty Magette. For added measure, he snuggled his head into Jowan's shoulder, causing Jowan to immediately attempt to extricate himself, panic-inching sideways until Cullen's sleeping bulk prevented further escape.

"If we were any cosier," Jowan grumbled miserably, "We'd be married."

"Married!" Merran exclaimed unexpectedly. "That's what I wanted to ask you, Alistair."

All eyes turned in surprise towards the Mage at the other end of the log. Jowan took a break to glare accusingly at Alistair. "What's _this _about, Merran?"

Clasping her hands, Merran gave a single, determined nod. "We should get married, Alistair."

Jowan's hands twitched into a shape that was Alistair-throat-sized, even though the man in question appeared to be genuinely flummoxed by his announcement. Alistair blinked at him, clearly thinking about _why _this particular idea had come into Merran's head. It made Jowan almost – _almost _– like Alistair for trying.

After some very intense thinking on Alistair's part, he removed his arm and grimaced in defeat. "I'm…I'm almost afraid to ask but…why?"

"It'll be great!" Merran clapped her hands, her eyes shining. "Because then we can adopt Dagna!"

Three out of four sets of lungs exhaled a relieved breath. Alistair remained unsure. There was still one, small detail: "Uh…who is Dagna?"

"She's our _daughter_, Alistair!" Merran smacked his leg. "How could you forget your own child!"

Alright. Now he really was confused. He turned to Jowan, but the damned Mage was investigating a knot in the log. Zevran too appeared to have an urgent need to pare his fingernails. With a sigh, Alistair turned back. Only Cullen left her cosy spot closer to the fire, padded quietly to him and placed a sympathetic paw on his knee.

"My…" Alistair cleared his throat. "How…how remiss of me…" he said weakly.

"Dagna, formerly of House Janar was that rather enthusiastic lass we met on the Commons yesterday, wasn't she?" It was Wynne who came to the rescue, supplying information that still didn't make much sense, but at least was a great deal more to go on than the tiny pieces he had previously. The elder Mage joined the group, settling on a log of her own with a ladylike tuck of her skirts beneath her. "You are determined then?" she asked Merran. "The Circle cannot refuse to consider a request from anyone wishing to study magic, but a dwarf sets quite a precedent."

Merran's smile lost some of its perk. "You think the First Enchanter will refuse her on the grounds of her being a dwarf?" she asked.

Wynne smiled gently. Give up on someone who could possibly share the secrets of dwarven lyrium smithing? She doubted the First Enchanter would pass up the opportunity. If there was the potential to establish lyrium trade separate from the Chantry too, well…she was sure Irving wouldn't pass that up either. "I doubt her cultural background matters any, Merran."

"But what does this have to do with...?" Jowan began helplessly when Leliana joined the conversation. If Morrigan and Sten came over it would be very cosy indeed.

"Oh…!" Leliana struck the night air dramatically with her finger. "I think I see. By giving up her caste to join the Circle, she gives up the protection of her family. You and Alistair would give that back."

Leaping up from the log, Merran hugged Leliana's hands to her chest. "Oh I _knew _you'd understand, Leliana!"

"Well, of _course _I do, Mer-Mer," Leliana pouted, tempering her unhappiness with an affectionate hug. "She was so adorable I just wanted to pinch her cheeks. Why would anyone_ not _want to protect her?"

"Wasn't she just?" Merran squealed. "_Just_ like Oghren!" she added enthusiastically. A deathly silence fell on the group at the mention of their new party member. _He _was anything but cute, the subject of Merran's adoration rolling over to emit a loud, long belch that caused a rabbit to scamper out of the nearby brush in terror. "I could cuddle them all day!" Merran added, leaving Leliana's side to claim Alistair's bewildered hands. The rest of him was even more confused. "One, big, happy family!"

Alistair grimaced. "Uh…yeah." _One, big, happy family indeed!_

-oo-

"Well, you wanted proof, _here's_ the proof…"

Merran startled as the large, bloodied sack landed between herself and Morrigan. Wynne recoiled, one hand pinching her nose at the smell. Meanwhile, Alistair stood above them, grim and filthy but looking glad _that _chore was over and done with, even though it had been _he _who'd won the argument against Merran taking up the challenge of facing Flemeth _and_ gone himself.

Morrigan however, quite calmly untied the sack and peered inside. Satisfied at its contents, she peeled down the sides of the hessian to display Flemeth's head for Wynne to view. "Allow me to introduce my mother, Senior Enchanter," Morrigan laughed gleefully. "I believe the two of you had yet to meet."

"And now that we have," Wynne retorted, shielding her face from the sight with both hands, "you may remove it from my presence! It's hideous!"

Laughing even harder, Morrigan picked up the sack and hurled it into the fire, adding an extra blast of intense magical heat. Flemeth's ghastly severed head glowed white-blue, the flames taking on the shape of a dragon for several seconds before fading away.

"When you said you'd laugh at your mother's demise all that time ago in Lothering," Alistair grimaced with distaste. "You certainly weren't jesting, were you?"

Morrigan's response was merely more laughter. Shaking his head, he looked towards Merran, sitting uncharacteristically quiet by Wynne. He was exhausted and sore and stinking of dragon gore and marsh filth. Morrigan had said _nothing _about Flemeth being able to turn into a dragon, of all things and the Korcari Wilds had become less of a depressing test of waterproofing and more of a depressing open mass grave. Partially decaying, dismembered bodies lay everywhere; the stench had been unbelievable that it had been a surprise to find Flemeth still at her little hut. Yet she had been there _and _she had been expecting them.

Shaking out his gauntlets, Alistair began working at the fastenings on his breastplate, his gaze returning to Merran still. On the other side of the camp, Sten had already stripped down to the waist and was cleaning his sword. He wondered why Merran would not look at him and why she looked so…so _cowed. _That was _not_ Merran. Merran was never cowed. Even when she was afraid, she'd straighten her shoulders and just get on with it. So, why?

As he removed his left pauldron, he winced, feeling the torn edges of his skin pull apart painfully. Despite his armour and quick reflexes, dragon-Flemeth had still managed to hook a claw underneath, making him lose his shield temporarily and almost taking his arm off with it. If Shale hadn't stepped on the dragon's tail, that head burning in the fire might well be his own. But Merran…He needed to get her aside and find out what was bothering her.

Indicating his injured shoulder, he bent towards her. "Merran, do you think you c-" He never got to finish his sentence. She stood up so fast, her braid whipped sideways and without giving him a moment's more of her time, walked quickly away, muttering something vague about seeing whether Sten or Zevran needed her help.

Alistair watched her go, confused and bewildered. Merran had been fine when they'd left for the Korcari Wilds; smiling that sweet smile of hers and demanding he bend down so she could give him a kiss for good luck. It had only been a peck on the cheek, but it had been the closest thing to a real kiss since…well they hadn't really _kissed. _Yet. There hadn't been much opportunity since their little interlude in the Frostback Markets and with so many people always around the two of them were never really alone, but still…He thought the two of them had come to an understanding. Or had his declaration and gift of rose been so obtuse that she still thought they were just friends?

_Well, even a friend wouldn't just walk away._

He'd noticed since Orzammar that Merran had been looking increasingly tired and worn out. Wynne had told him that her tiredness was due to the lingering aftereffects of too much lyrium, but Alistair knew better. That haunted, dark look; the one she allowed herself when she thought no one was looking was the same one he'd begun to see in Duncan. Like Duncan she was up before everyone else and went to bed way after all their companions had turned in. She might be sharing a jest with Zevran now, her cheeks dimpling in that adorable way and look _nothing_ like a Grey Warden close to her Calling, but Alistair could not forget what he'd learned that afternoon in the Frostbacks.

Feeling suddenly lightheaded, Alistair sat down, his breath catching oddly in his throat. He wished he knew how to fix this; to extend Merran's life. Somehow. There was no cure for the Taint. Not really. What he did know was that he wanted to make her happy in the time that she had left; wanted to show her how precious she'd become to him that…that a little bit of him died too, watching her succumb to the Taint.

Brushing his hand across his eyes, Alistair looked up to find Merran crossing the camp area, heading towards the river. Leaving his breastplate and shoulder armour behind, he stood quickly to follow. She must have known at some point that he was following her, increasing her pace until she was jogging along the riverbank. But he was faster than she and as tired as he was, easily outpaced her.

"Merran!" he caught hold of her arm. "What's wrong? Why are you running away?"

Refusing to look at him, Merran attempted to laugh the situation off. "I'm not running away."

He was all too aware of how filthy he was when he cupped her chin in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"Yes you are," he insisted.

"No I'm…" Sounding on the verge of tears, she pushed her hair from her face. "Listen Alistair, I…you know it's-" _Now, or never…_

Alistair knew quite well how disgustingly rank he must smell when he bent to touch her lips with his own. _Maker, _he could smell himself and it was _horrible_, but if he didn't do this _now, _when would they ever get the chance? And, now that he had it was…well alright it felt rather awkward and he wasn't quite sure exactly what to do next but when her mouth moved under his – just a surprised twitch really - something went _ping! _in his brain and suddenly it was all wonderfully _clear _and right and _hey, I'm not too bad at this_ when her arms slid up his shoulders and hooked behind his head, urging their bodies closer. He'd been wanting to do this since Orzammar – no even before that, wracking his memory for that first moment when his slow brain had realised that he wanted her. Redcliffe? Hunter Fell? Or even in the Mage Tower? He knew something ugly and angry had taken over him when he'd seen that Templar raise his hand to her. But he'd pushed all those feelings aside. She was a _mage_ and…well, in the end he'd been no better than those Templars…

Now, he didn't want to let go; completely and utterly immersed in the taste and feel of her, tightening his hold and ignoring for the moment how insubstantial; how _thin_ she felt, for simply enjoying the way she melted into him. How perfectly the two of them fit together. It wasn't to last. Her limbs suddenly stiffened and abruptly she pulled away, staring up at him with a mixture of guilt and such wretchedness that he started to feel guilty himself…_No, no guilt, _he warned himself_._

"Alistair…" she began in a small, tearful voice. "I'm sorry."

Alistair blinked. Stubbornly maintaining his hold on her, he searched her face for clues. "I'm not." Which, after he'd said it, sort of made things worse. Tears flowing freely down her cheeks, she began to sob; great, despairing gulps that tore at his insides. So of _course_, in response to her bawling, he resorted to _humour_…"You know, you're not supposed to cry. You're supposed to say, 'hey how come you've stopped?'"

_Bad idea. _Merran only cried the harder, with the result that he promised not to kiss her again if she stopped crying and this sparked such a disconsolate howl that Alistair feared for a sudden appearance of Jowan, or worse…_Cullen._ He hastily tucked her head into his chest, throwing a wary look about their surroundings. After a while, her weeping slowed and though she had in fact been resting her arms loosely about his waist, she brought them up and gave him a push that was both lacking in strength and enthusiasm.

With a quick wipe of her sleeve across her face, Merran sniffed at his shirt tie. "I'm sorry," she told him wetly. "This is…This is wrong. I'm sorry."

Alistair frowned. Wrong? Was he missing something here? "Why? Because you're a-a mage? Because I've trained as a Templar?" he asked, mystified.

She shook her head, reaching over to play idly with his shirt toggle. "We're both…both Grey Wardens," she told him. "And I don't want to make…" She took a deep breath. "I don't want to have to make a decision between you a-a-and my duty as a Warden."

There was an audible _scrrnchh_ noise that Alistair realised was coming from him grinding his teeth. _Duty? _A _decision _between him and her…her _duty_…? This…this was not Merran-thinking. Merran did not need to _think _about her duty to the Wardens, Ferelden or anyone else. She just _did. _Without thinking about it. It was ingrained. This was…this was…"Because," he completed her sentence between clenched teeth. "Love is ultimately, selfish?"

He knew where those words had come from. _Or should I say 'whom'?_

Merran blinked, surprised. "Yes." Still toying with the toggles, she added, "And you are…young and inexperienced in the ways of the heart." She frowned. "Um. I don't want to hurt you." She looked up at him then, her eyes and nose red and her hair all mussed and he really couldn't think of anyone who could be more beautiful with a snotty nose and puffy eyes than his Mage Warden.

"I'll end up hurting you," she sighed. "I think it would…it would…be…better if…if we end…ed…If we-" He stopped her speaking by the simple expedient of rapping her forehead gently with his knuckles.

"You know," he began conversationally. "I thought _I'm_ supposed to be the thick one around here. You're supposed to be the cluey, smart one who hides her genius behind a screen of girly silliness." Having said _that, _he kissed her forehead, then her cheeks; one after the other, then tipped her chin up so he could kiss the tip of her nose properly. "Do you honestly think that if you distance yourself from me, that I'll change my mind?" he asked. "That I'll suddenly stop liking you; caring for you?"

"Um…" she began uncertainly. "I don-"

"The answer is 'no', Merran. A definite 'no'."

"Oh."

Wrapping his arms about her again, he hugged her tightly. "You know," he began, "when Duncan told me about how being a Grey Warden shortens our lives, I was so…so _angry_. I felt like I'd been cheated; deceived. Duncan…he just put his hand on my shoulder and told me that it wasn't about heading towards death that was important, but how we lived our lives until that death." Framing her face with his hands, he kissed her again. "You said yourself that you considered yourself lucky, well, so do I. I'm so glad that I get to be here with _you_, instead of any other Grey Warden-"

"Including Duncan?" she asked, a bit of a cheeky glint in her eye.

"Well, I wouldn't _want _to kiss Duncan…" he grimaced. "All that beard hair, bleargh."

Finally! A smile! It was a tiny one, but it lifted Alistair's heart, even if there was a raging Alistair waiting in the back of his head. Something had to be said first. Something vitally important.

"I love you," he told her. "And I'm going to keep loving you. Even if you turn me into a frog…Well alright, in truth I'd probably hate you if you turned me into a frog and I'd end up leaving dead flies in your bedroll as revenge. My point is…my point is…" he sighed, side-tracked again. And one of the benefits of being side-tracked was being able to do something else until he could remember his trail of thought again. A benefit he took full advantage of, with another deep, long kiss that left them both a little breathless, but convinced Alistair he really _was _getting the hang of this.

"And if one of us has to make the choice between doing what we have to and each other?" Merran asked, stroking a line across his jaw that made his bellybutton tingle.

"Would it be a choice though?" he wondered out loud. "I know you would never make a decision willingly to hurt anyone, Merran," he stated. "All the choices you've made so far have been for the greater good and while I…haven't always understood that greater good, I like to think I'm at least well, _beginning _to understand. I'm trying to…I don't want you do to this alone. You shouldn't have to do this alone. I'm not going to let you." Folding her snugly in his arms, he rested his stubbled cheek on the top of her head. "For better or worse, Merran, you're stuck with me."

He could feel her laughing softly; her breath warm against his skin exposed by the loosened toggles of his shirt.

"That's not such a bad thing, really," she whispered shyly.

"Well, I should hope not!"

"And…"

"Hm?"

"I love you too," she said, with a kiss to the bared skin at his neck that made more than just his bellybutton tingle. "Though…you don't think this is all a bit…well rushed, Alistair?"

"No," he told her very, very firmly. "Not at all. In fact, we're probably overdue. I suspect we'll have to make up for lost time, in fact…Just not, uh…now."

Merran pulled away a little, wondering at the oddly grim turn Alistair's voice had taken. Did he suddenly remember he was covered in dragon gore and marsh slime? He was a bit on the stinky side but she didn't care much. How many times had the two of them been covered in darkspawn innards and just carried on? And, bloodthirsty as it sounded, Alistair did look a bit…well manly, all blood-spattered. She looked up at him, openly admiring the bits of him that were clean-ish and adoring the parts that weren't. Their time together would be so short and there was so much to do but…she would make the best of it; make him as happy as she was feeling right now. Though…why the frown?

"Alistair…?"

He appeared to have to collect himself. "Ah…Wait here, will you?" he said. "I just need to do something and I'll be right back." He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "I promise."

Alistair left her quickly, his resentment beginning to simmer until it reached boiling point. There, it moved rapidly from anger to red-hot rage so that by the time he reached the camp, he was seething with molten wrath and he barely saw his target until he bumped into her. This time, there were no apologies. No cute Alistair-isms. Only him…and the woman who should have known _better._ Who he thought had compassion and a _heart_.

"You know Wynne," Alistair greeted the Senior Enchanter, fighting for some kind of calm, because if he wasn't lucid, he would sputter nonsense and she would never take him seriously. "I recognise that you try to keep the best interests of all of us at heart, _but_…" He couldn't help all but spit the last word into Wynne's shocked face. "I'd appreciate it if you kept your nose out of my and Merran's _business._"

"Alistair, what in Thedas-"

"Who gives you the right to decide our happiness?" he demanded. "We _know _our lives are short! Merran's even shorter! Who the _Fade_ are _you_ to deny her _any_ scrap of happiness she deserves?"

Dumbstruck for several seconds after, when Wynne found her voice it was not to defend herself but to ask: "What do you mean shorter?"

"She's near her Calling Wynne," Alistair informed her coldly. "Didn't you know that? I thought you knew _every _thing."

"No…" To her credit, the Senior Enchanter looked stricken at the information. "No...no, I didn't."

Alistair gave a curt nod. "In that case, I don't expect you to feel the need to remind Merran about her _duty _ever again."

Feeling oddly deflated, now that he'd said his piece, Alistair turned on his heel, shaking a little because he couldn't remember ever being that angry at anyone before, glad that he hadn't done anything…foolish, but immensely pleased with himself for standing up to the stern Senior Enchanter for Merran's sake. He gave his head a shake, keen now to return to Mage. As filthy as he was, he had an overwhelming urge just to have her close. There had been a river nearby. He could get cleaned up while they talked and after…well…_after…_

Except when he reached the area where he'd left her, Merran was nowhere to be found. He stood for several seconds, stupidly peering into the surrounding brush, then dove towards the river…immediately coming nose to point with the head of an arrow.

"You, Shemlen" a voice said somewhere behind the arrow. "You make so much noise we could have shot you in the dark…"

_Ah…the Dalish Elves…Well, that saves us having to go look for them, I suppose…_

"I guess…" Alistair told the arrow. "This is the point where…I ask you to take me to your Leader?"

-oo-


	27. Tears for Fleas

A/N: No _actual _lizards were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Just thought you ought to know.

-oo

**Chapter 27 – Tears for Fleas**

His name, Merran thought, was Zachary…maybe. It might have been Shastarian or…she had to admit now that she perhaps hadn't quite caught the name when he'd introduced himself and now that the conversation had moved on, it seemed impolite to ask again. These were the Dalish. She was sure of that. One of the Apprentices back at the Circle Tower; Eadric, had been her Elven lore expert. They'd talked frequently about how the Dalish had returned to their old ways in order to be one with nature so Merran had _some _idea what they might be like but…Meeting Zaffir or…Durian was it (?) and other real live Dalish now, she wasn't quite sure just what part of nature this _actually_ involved.

"Oh dear," - _Fruitarian…? No, it had definitely started with a 'Z' or 'Sh' - _informed her with a grave shake of his bald head. "I am sorry, but we really are stretched for time here. If you'd approached us for an appointment, oh say…six months ago, we might have been able to fit you in."

_Shabbian? Zallyan? __Merran kicked herself mentally, trying to remember._

"With our time fully occupied by this most inconvenient curse, we simply can't spare the resources." He had been thumbing through his carefully trimmed leaf parchment notebook and had stopped at a likely spot. "Oh wait, what about Tuesday, eight months from now? That looks like it may be available."

"My apologies, Keeper…" The elven beauty standing at the Keeper's side interrupted with a sad shake her head. "We've allocated our Annual Halla Hoof Inspection Extravaganza to that date."

"Oh, yes, yes, I see that now." He turned to point out another entry. "And this one here?" he enquired.

"Dalish Craft and Crafting Exposition," she replied.

"Oh really?" Zimbibble raised his eyebrows – which, considering the hairless state of the rest of him amounted to barely a handful of teeny hairs in total – "I'm so looking forward to that!" Smiling in reminiscence of past events, he sighed. "Last year Varethorn made a one to one scale model of a _complete_ Aravel out of toothpicks. Marvellous! We shall never see the like…"

Closing his leaf notebook with a snap, he offered an apologetic shrug. "My apologies once more Warden, but unless an opening appears in the near future, I'm afraid you'll be fighting this Blight without the Dalish." He added; "Any chance of negotiating a more convenient time with the Archdemon? Perhaps if it came back in…" Zashia consulted his leaf organiser again. "Two years, four months and three weeks' time?"

"Um…" Merran considered this request with the little bird gesture of cocking her head to the side that would have put folk who knew her on their immediate guard. "I uh, think the Archdemon has its own itinerary at present," she stated.

"Oh, well that _is_ a shame," Shaboodle's sigh dripped with disappointment – false or not, it was difficult to say – and he pointed to the exit to the camp. "Can't be helped, I suppose. Mithra will see you to the forest exit-"

"Isn't there _anything_ that we can do to help free up your…um, schedule?" Merran asked hopefully. "Anything at all? Really?"

"I'm not too sure…"

"What is this 'curse' you mentioned?" Merran asked eagerly, plucking possible solutions out of her brain as they occurred to her. Trying to find another Dalish Clan might take months…_years…_"Abominations?" she suggested. "Blood Mages? Walking Undead? We have extensive experience in these sorts of matters."

Merran's efforts were rewarded by a speculative look shared between Keeper Zalkan and his Apprentice. "No job too big or too small," she added as the clinching argument.

Before the Keeper could respond however, a Scout presented himself; a very stiff, handsome individual who came to a very precise halt in front of Keeper Zaccharine. He raised his arm directly in front of him in a salute, the tips of his leather-clad fingers landing a soldierly two inches from his Keeper's nose.

"Keeper!" he barked. "More Shemlen have invaded our lands, _Sir_!"

Zalcan sighed a heavy sigh of the very pressed-for-time. "Are we to be inundated today?" he demanded the universe. "Do these people realise how _busy_ I am?"

"Oh!" Merran said brightly, seeing an opportunity and grabbing it with both hands. And available feet. "That would be the rest of my Curse-breaker-Abomination-Clearing-Zombie-Apocalypse-Stopping Expert Team!"

With a sour look at Merran, the Scout proceeded to recite: "The party consists of five human Shemlen, one reduced-sized Shemlen, one super-sized Shemlen, a Shemlen with elf ears, one Shemlen made out of rock and a four-legged Shemlen which I suspect is a _Werewolf_, Keeper!" He then about-faced as the Invaders in question were brought to the Keeper's Aravel, surrounded by more Dalish Scouts. Merran gave them a cheery wave, twisting her head sideways as she realised the elves had _tied _Cullen up; suspending the mabari on a sturdy pole between two elves.

Cullen wasn't happy; growling and snapping with each step; or as much as a seasoned wardog could when suspended upside down. She reserved her most irritated growl at Zashia, causing the Keeper to recoil in clear disapproval.

"And people wonder why I'm a cat person..." he muttered to anyone within earshot. Switching his attention to the rest of the group did not change his expression much. "Are you _all _Grey Wardens?" he enquired, his skepticism clear. "You're rather ragtag."

His gaze landed on Alistair; armour-less, gore-splattered and stinking. His disgusted expression turned somewhat cryptic, tapping his lower lip with his leaf organiser silently. Feeling some introduction was necessary, Merran inched towards Alistair. "This is-" she'd begun when the Keeper's Apprentice stepped in front of her, raking the tall Grey Warden with an intense stare that made the almost–Templar's ears turn slightly pink.

"Ohh…" she murmured breathlessly. "Blood spattered men are so…_manly_. Are you single, Shemlen?"

Alistair gaped. "_No._"

"Pity…" the Apprentice sighed deeply, returning to her Keeper's side with slumped shoulders. She did however continue to watch Alistair from beneath her long lashes, claiming Zembibee's Organiser and fanning herself with it. "Rather unseasonably warm winter day we're having, aren't we?" she commented after a short time.

"Yes…" Keeper Zilenenen retrieved his organiser from his underling. When he spoke next, it was to Merran. "Before you agree to take on this task, you should be aware what it entails. I warn you. It is a curse most horrible that has afflicted my people." He paused for dramatic effect then gestured for them to follow, careful to skirt around Cullen's snapping jaws.

His path ended at a shady space beneath a stand of ancient Oaks. The area had been fenced and manned by a handful of burly, heavily-armed Dalish. Within the area itself; was a smallish area of grass trodden flat…and three more elves. At the sight of them, the Keeper's Apprentice began to sob while Zafria placed his hand over his heart, his expression unbearably sad.

Curious, Merran peered into the pen. The fenced elves were dishevelled, their hair unbound and hanging about their tattooed faces. Oddly, they sat on all fours, but apart from that, she could not see what was wrong with them.

Cullen however had a different view. Her paws now free, she approached the fence with her head low, gums peeled back to reveal warning fangs. As soon as she came to stand next to Merran, the elves sprang towards that part of the fence, barking and…_snarling_ and for all the world, appearing to _challenge _the mabari.

Not to be outmatched, Cullen loosed a single, aggressive snarl, reaching in and swatting the closest elf hard across the nose. With a yelp, the elf backed away, huddling with the others where, after a brief bout of pitiful whining, attempted to lick himself. At the fence, Cullen gave a victorious huff, looking extremely pleased with herself. Now that Mabari dominance had been established, matters could now proceed…

Unable to watch his suffering people any longer, Keeper Zedanan turned away from the fence, his stricken expression hidden by his hand for a few moments while he composed himself.

"Do you see Warden?" he told Merran and the others while another elf behind him unsuccessfully tried scratching his shoulder with his foot. "Our hunters have not been able to enter the forest to hunt, lest they too succumb to this awful curse."

To Alistair's horror, the largest of the afflicted elves loped on all fours towards him, sniffing the Grey Warden's crotch through the fence planks. Yelping in dismay, Alistair leapt backwards, far out of sniffing – or pawing range - while the elf in question sat down, cocking his head at the Grey Warden and whining like a puppy deprived unexpectedly of a chew toy.

"We've had to contain them in this area," Keeper Zerlinden explained gravely. "They kept urinating on the Aravels, attempting to herd our Halla and begging for food scraps at the table. Hardly unforgiveable…_however_ one night, we woke to find Varathorn's supply of iron wood chewed to scraps and my Keeper's staff had been buried…somewhere…" He bit his lip suddenly, his hand on his chest. "Forgive me Grey Wardens…this is…this is very difficult for me."

"Oh Keeper…" his Apprentice touched the older elf's shoulder. "Should I fetch you a bracing tincture?"

"No, no, I thank you Lanaya." He in turn patted his Apprentice gratefully on the arm then motioned the Grey Wardens to follow him again; a little way from the enclosure. "I have been doing some research," he informed them. "I believe we may have a chance at finding a possible cure: using the heart of the creature that has infected my people. Up until now it has been too dangerous to send my hunters to search for him, but you, Grey Wardens…you can do this task for us."

"Wouldn't it be dangerous for us too?" Alistair asked, thinking this whole situation was a bit…odd.

Keeper Zallydally snorted at the suggestion. "Don't be ridiculous!" He peered down his nose at them. "You're just Shemlen. You're expendable."

Disregarding the shabby human, he redirected his attention back to Merran, clearly – using her Mage staff as clear evidence – the leader of this scruffy group of mismatched…creatures. "Will you do this for us Warden?" he prompted. "If we are not occupied battling this curse, we might well be able to free up some time to spare for your Blight."

"Well…" Merran said slowly. Sliding a look sideways at Alistair then tossing a casual look over her shoulder at the enclosed Were-elves, she smiled the sweetest smile in her arsenal. "Let me check my diary first," she told him, "and I'll let you know."

-oo-

The party ventured deep into the forest but had come across nothing more exciting than a few blight wolves, some large bears, a smattering of darkspawn and walking trees that came to life and attacked them for no other reason than that they _could_. They'd found some intriguing tracks, and followed them; their passage accompanied by the sound of running water. By the time they reached the banks of a narrow stream, the sun was beginning to sink below the tree line and Merran called a halt for the day. She and Morrigan took the opportunity to gather some rare forest herbs, while the others began to set up camp. Regardless of the werewolf risk, it was too late now to return to the Dalish encampment. Not that any of them had any faith they would be allowed to share it.

As Jowan and Sten busied themselves building a fire, Alistair went downstream a ways and without hesitation, waded fully-clothed into it. To his delight he located a waterfall a little further on, finding it absolute bliss to simply stand beneath the flowing, frigid water to wash the last of the Korcari filth away…undershirt and all. He emerged much later, feeling invigorated and _clean. _Pushing wet hair off his forehead, he emerged back into the stream to realise he had an audience. Zevran, Leliana and Wynne sat perched on a large boulder…_watching_ him.

"_Dear Maker…" _Wynne exclaimed, clutching at her chest. Alistair frowned, checking his person for anything untoward. Had he left his trousers untied by accident? No, no, everything appeared to be secure and where it should be.

"Is there…anything wrong?" he asked them cautiously.

"Oh _no_…" Leliana smirked at him. "Everything is _fine._ Just dandy!"

"And very nice," Zevran added, golden eyes glittering at him in a way that made Alistair feel as though he was completely naked…as opposed to actually having all his clothes on. "I applaud your effort in ridding yourself of the dragon's filth, finally," Zevran added, leaning forward.

Reflexively, Alistair leaned back, even though the odd trio were on the other side of the stream, out of reach. "Well," he decided to shift focus away from himself. "I noticed _you_ managed to escape most of the spray."

"It merely takes practice, my friend," Zevran was openly ogling him now.

"Right…" Alistair began backing off. If he walked a bit further up the stream he could climb up the bank there and avoid the three of them. Frankly, they were being a bit…_creepy_. He'd taken the first step out of the water when Merran emerged through the trees there, whistling a merry tune tunelessly, her arms piled with herbs and edible tubers. She stopped short, her collection falling to the ground unheeded, dark eyes going wide.

Alistair smiled, happy that she was happy and even more pleased he could appear in front of her again without embarrassing himself too much. "Hey…" he began when he realised her cheeks were rather red and he frowned, concerned. "Merran? Are you feeling well?" She wasn't overdoing it was she?

Her response was an unintelligible giggle, turning even redder. She tilted her head to the side. "Ooh…" she breathed; sending one of Alistair's eyebrows shooting skywards. _Oh...really? _he thought, rather pleased with her reaction, purposely flexing muscles under his shirt. Bad idea. Behind him, on the rock, the gawping trio applauded.

"Must you be such a showoff?"

To Merran's great disappointment, Jowan's arrival caused her admiration of a dripping Alistair in a wet shirt cut short when he put his hand over her eyes. "I can see your nipples, by the way," he threw at Alistair in disgust. Raising his voice slightly, he included the rest in his conversation. "If anyone is interested," he announced. "I've found the Werewolves."

"Werewolves?" Alistair sputtered, bringing his arms across his chest protectively. "How?"

Jowan snorted. "Easy," he stated. "They've invited us for tea."

-oo-

"And now, let us hold hands and sing _Why We Love To Hug Trees In The Forest…_"

"Ancestors' _tits_…" Oghren growled, sniffing at the contents of the delicate porcelain teacup in his hand and recoiling. "Smells like dirt, looks like bronto piss. They don't expect us to _drink_ this do they?"

"Shh, Oghren," Merran scolded. "Be nice; they're singing." She stared dreamily at the circle of her companions and Werewolves, swaying in time and clapping her hands in rhythm to the song.

"This is pointless," Sten grumbled behind. He, along with Shale had refused to be part of the circle, preferring instead to prop up the wall. "How will this help us defeat the Blight?" he demanded. "While we waste time chatting with trees and embracing talking dogs, the horde ravages this land."

"Yes," Shale agreed wholeheartedly. "We should be squishing things. Like this lizard, here…"

The song stopped briefly as all eyes turned towards the golem and the awful, splattery-crunching noise. "What?" she asked, hands thrown wide innocently. The next minute, the song re-started, along with the swaying and the clapping. One of the Werewolves produced a tambourine while the Lady of the Forest tootled away on a set of wooden pipes. As the last notes of the music died away, Merran stood, excited to be a part of such a _nice _gathering. Blight or not, she was having a wonderful time.

"Ooh, ooh," she bounced up and down. "Can I do one? Can I? Can I?"

"Of course, dear friend of the Forest," The Lady smiled serenely and as she nodded encouragingly, the werewolves applauded with enthusiasm.

"Okay, okay," Merran grinned happily. "Ready everyone?" The Lady nodded demurely. "Alright, it goes like this: You…put your left hand in, you put your left hand out-"

"I _knew_ I would find _you _here…!" The stern, angry voice echoed around the leafy chamber. When it finished travelling about the room, all eyes turned to the new arrival; an elderly elven man in the garb a Dalish Keeper. "Huh!" he exclaimed in disgust. "And in the company of _Werehippies_ as well_…_"

As one the Werewolves rose to their paws, booing, hissing and wolf-calling. Some held up placards saying _'down with the Elven Oppressors'_ and _'Elven We Had Enough?'_ While yet others held up pre-prepared pictures of Elves painted in circles with a line through them. The Dalish interloper…_this _Dalish interloper, was not welcome in their singing circle and they intended to make their protest loudly known.

"Zathrian." The Lady however, did not appear to share the werewolves' objection, beckoning the Elven Keeper to step into the circle with a wave of a leaf-twined, bark-skinned hand. "Join us," she urged him. "There are plenty of lentil cakes to share."

"I would rather attend a very boring, three-hour lunch meeting without sandwiches, _Witherfang_," Zathrian – _ah-ha! _Merran cheered quietly. _That's the name! _– "For that is what you are!" the Keeper continued, his nose wrinkling. "A beast without time-keeping skills or organisational abilities!" Waving a dismissive hand at the gathering, he added; "You call this organised? A cow in a tornado would be better organised!"

"Zathrian," The Lady repeated, with a sorrowful shake of her head. Still urging the elder elf to join them, she held out her hands towards him. "Here we have found peace," she explained. "Tranquillity. We are at _one_ with our surroundings. _Must_ you continue to stubbornly adhere to your inflexible strictures? Can you not let go of your bitter past and your endless need for vengeance?"

The Elven Keeper jerked back as though he had been struck, his face white with fury. "I saw what you did to my poor children…" he reminded The Lady, voice trembling with rage fossilised into his very bones with the passing of time. "I saw the…I cannot…" His voice broke time and time again. "I _will _not forgive _you__…__" _he told her hoarsely._ "_Tie-dies and…_beads…_Oh! My poor, poor boy; my sad, abused girl…!" When he raised his head, his eyes were blazing like twin suns. "_No o_ne deserves the fate you imposed upon my own flesh. And. Blood!"

"Whoa!" Merran leapt between the two rivals, in an attempt to broker some kind of agreement, or at the least, calm them both down. Hands held up as though by doing so she could merely keep them apart this way, she continued; "You mean to tell me…This whole thing started because of some disagreement in lifestyle choices?"

"My children had no _choice_!" the Keeper corrected her statement bitterly. "They were brainwashed! Their fragile, impressionable minds twisted! They joined a…a…Commune!" He broke down; sobbing, falling to his knees in his grief. Burying his head into his hands, he cried great doleful, fatherly tears for children lost. "They became _vegetarian_!" he wailed. "Refused to bathe!" Tearing at his clothes, the Keeper was now seemingly beyond the comfort of anyone. "My boy grew dreadlocks! My girl changed her name to Sunflower Peach Moon!" Pounding his fists bitterly on the cavern floor, Zathrian howled in utter misery. "How is a father…_any_ father to reconcile himself to such a thing? I had plans! Career paths mapped out to the very minute!"

The Lady pushed through her honour guard of werewolves to kneel beside the sobbing Keeper, hands coming to rest comfortingly on the fallen elf. "I am truly sorry that this has caused you so much pain," she told him in her breathless, unruffled voice. "But you must learn to let go…learn to love yourself again and move on…Time," she added, "Is ticking, after all…"

Slowly, Keeper Zathrian's tears dried. He ceased his tragic weeping and finally, raised his head, understanding shining in his eyes.

"Of course, wise lady," he said, gripping her root-shaped hands. "You are _right_. I will…" He paused to blow his nose messily on his sleeve. "Here and now, I vow to let go of my anger…and try to embrace my inner Time-Keeper…"

The Lady nodded her acknowledgement, the two standing hand in hand. Then Zathrian raised his Keeper's staff high above them both. As the werewolves keened a song of farewell, a circle of light enveloped them all; the kiss of warm sun and the whisper of a breeze through the trees intermingling with the scratch of a quill across parchment and the soft clacking of abacus beads. When the light faded, Zathrian and the The Lady of the Forest had gone and surrounding them now were not werewolves, but humans, dressed in ragged clothing, staring at each other in wonder and awe.

"Oh man…" one of them stated. "_That_ was totally wild…"

"Trippin…!" another agreed.

"I've like, got to stop smoking the elfroot, dude…" yet another said, smacking the side of his head to clear the mental fog. "It's like, messing with my mind, ya know?"

Without a word to Merran or her companions, the raggedy humans filed out of the old ruins, continuing to cast their surroundings awestruck stares as though they had never seen them before. As the last of them disappeared through the broken doorway, Alistair raised his hand.

"Uh…" he ventured. "Does anyone here think we should escort them out? There are _darkspawn_ in that forest, you know."

"Urgh…" Shale shuddered; the gesture sounding like a rockfall. "And we didn't get to _squeeze_ them into a bloody paste…I ask you: what _is _the point?"

-oo-

_Well…we now have the collection…_Alistair ran his hand through his hair as he lay on his bedroll, staring up at the shadows and rippling canvas. It was late. How late, he had no idea. The camp had been quiet for some time, except for the odd animal – or Oghren – sound. It seemed he was the only one awake, mulling over where they all were at this point in time. The Dalish were the last in their list of allies to find. The new Keeper, Lanaya had promised to send word to as many Dalish clans as she could, honouring their agreement with the Grey Wardens to fight alongside them. The dwarves too, under their new King Bhelen were even now gathering up on the surface and the Mages were to be seen out and about, _practising. _As for the human non-Mages, there were soldiers from Redcliffe and Highever. As few as there were on that side, it was still _numbers. _As many spears, bows, swords and bodies as they could muster. _Their army. _Would it be enough? There had been thousands gathered at Ostagar, even without the Redcliffe forces. On the other hand, Alistair reminded himself, General Loghain had removed the bulk of the King's army, leaving too few to meet the horde. And, while he and Merran had been wandering about Ferelden looking for allies, the darkspawn had been _breeding. _They might still be outnumbered, who knew?

The truth was no one _would_ know until they met the horde head-on. Large bands of darkspawn might well be roaming the length and breadth of the country, but the Taint told him there were more, so much more. With so much uncertainty, it felt as though the two of them were standing on a precipice with nothing else but the long, deep plunge towards battle with the Archdemon. All _they_ had to do was kill it, right?

_Easy._

It would only be surrounded by hundreds of _thousands _of darkspawn.

_Like a stroll in the forest, really…_

Before _that_, he reminded himself, there was still the matter of Loghain and the throne, but he didn't want to think about that, not yet. As much as the notion of being King bothered him, _getting _to the Archdemon was the more important part. And it meant…it meant…He took a deep, slow breath. It meant Merran would…it mean that Merran's…_end _would be near and _that…_His tent flaps parted and someone scampered inside. Someone small. Someone who unrolled their bedroll and blankets next to him, settled down then attempted to burrow into his side.

"Uh…" he began rather nervously, every single, worried thought about upcoming battles with the darkspawn fleeing his mind for the more immediate subject of; "Merran?"

"Hello, yes," she said softly, her chilly nose touching his shoulder.

"Your feet are cold."

"I know," she said apologetically. "Sorry about that. Can you warm them for me?"

"_Merran…_"

"Can't sleep," she added, clutching at his arm and hugging it tightly to her chest. _Maker…_Alistair did not want to move. She felt so soft and warm – well most of her was warm - and she was…_here._ H.E.R.E. Right next to him. Sharing a bedroll. Well, two bedrolls, but that wasn't the point. The point was…The point was…_This is the part where I have to be a perfect gentleman, isn't it? _He sighed.

"You don't mind, do you?" she whispered, her breath tickling the skin at his neck and he stopped breathing. _'Did he __mind__?' she asks…_Alistair wanted to slap himself. Or better yet; have a quick roll in the snow or jump into the coldest water he could find. _Think about cheese, think about cheese! _

She was seeking comfort from him. He knew that. On the one hand it delighted him. On the other, he was finding it very, very depressing. And yet…and yet…she was practically handing him the opportunity to be…closer. Possibly involving removal of clothes – cold as it was – he didn't mind. There were a few ways he could think of _right now_ of warming her all the way through…Right. Well. Really. _Opportunity…_he questioned himself, _or taking advantage? _

_You could ask. _It wouldn't hurt, right?

Right?

Right.

_How to start? _Taking another long and deep breath, Alistair clasped his hands together and gathered his unruly thoughts.

"Merran…" he began. It was a good start. Starting with her name was good. It was practical; respectful. _Stop being an idiot, idiot! _"Y-y-uh-eh…" _That, _was perhaps not so good. Another breath. This shouldn't be so difficult! This…the woman he loved was lying right next to him. Loved; adored; wanted. He knew she loved _him_. They'd…well as is always the way when travelling in the company of nosey companions and frequent attacks by darkspawn they'd not had many opportunities for…canoodling. But well, they'd _tried_ and just this morning when the two of them had been collecting wood for the fire…_Oh, that had been very nice…_But neither of them had gone much further than a passionate kiss or two and while it did cross Alistair's mind that Merran might have had…relations back at the Tower – if Jowan's talk of his own exploits could be believed – because apparently that was what Mages got up to all the time…to be quite honest, Merran's shyness suggested differently.

Not that _he _was an expert by any means. He simply recognised his own inexperience in Merran and he really, _really _wanted everything to be…perfect. The perfect time; the perfect place. But how did someone go about _doing _all of that?

_Maybe this is a bad idea after all…_

"I love you," he murmured, going with sheer gut instinct. "You know that. And I…" A third deep breath. "You know that I've never…done anything like…this before. You know. With a wom…a woman. Well obviously not just any woman. Clearly it has to be _you, _because. Because I can't imagine being with anyone else but you and I'm sorry…Maker, I'm babbling, sorry…I just. I just…I don't want to disappoint you, I suppose. This is a very important, significant step in our relationship…" He couldn't help a small, nervous, but excited and extremely unmanly giggle. "Relationship…that is such an _awesome _word. And I'm in this. With you. That's…amazing. _You're _amazing. And I want this to be right. For the both of us. Special. Even with the Blight looming over us and…or maybe it's _because _of the Blight looming over us, I want…and if you want to, we…we-"

"_Snrrrrgggggghkkkk…"_

Alistair froze, blinking in incomprehension. He turned his head, but the fire outside had burned down low and the both of them lay in complete darkness. "Merran?" he called softly. "My lov-"

"_Snrrrrggggggkkk…snort mmngh…_"

He exhaled his pent-up breath, torn between sheer relief and bitter, _bitter_ disappointment. Beside him, Merran snored loudly again, snuggling deeper into his side. This appeared to not be enough. Her arm came up and over his chest, her little fist smacking into the side of his head. When she brought her leg up and all too comfortably settled her knee across his _crotch, _Alistair slapped his forehead.

"_Typical__…_" he said, through gritted teeth.

"_Snrrrrgggggkkk…mm…snuggly Alibear…" _she mumbled in her sleep, nuzzling his neck and there seemed little to do except kick the blankets off himself because he was burning from the inside out. The frigid night air hit him like an icy hammer, but he didn't care. He could leave her but…_I can't_. She'd come here because of the nightmares and he knew it was far, far worse for her than it was for him. He wouldn't abandon her. He cared too much for Merran to leave her to face them alone.

Adjusting his posture just a little, Alistair rested his forehead against hers, resisting the urge to kiss her murmuring lips…then giving in because damn it she was so sweet that he couldn't resist; rearranging the both of them so that her head rested on his arm and she was tucked in as close as his Chantry-reinforced self-control would allow. It was just for tonight after all. Nothing to it. Snuggling Merran. Holding her as she slept and listening to her…well they were hardly dainty, ladylike snores; she could certainly give Oghren a run for his coin. In no time at all, he would be asleep too and with any luck he wouldn't drool too much into her hair and they'd wake up to each other and it would be…beautiful? Awkward? Embarrassing?

_Waking up to Merran_…he quite liked that idea. A lot. And…tomorrow…tomorrow they would arrive at Redcliffe. There would be clean rooms and soft beds and _well_.

He…just had to get through tonight, he told himself, still waiting for sleep to claim him when Merran jerked in her sleep and her knee came up sharply between his legs. Gritting his teeth, he loosened an arm to wipe the tears from his eyes. Right…sleep.

He squeezed his lids shut, realising she was saying something in her sleep. Sweet nothings? No…He leaned in…Merran was singing the_ Hokey Pokey_. In her sleep.

Sighing, he rolled onto his back again, eyes springing open; completely unable to keep them closed as she released a string of the loudest snores yet. It was going to be…a long, _long _night.

-oo-


	28. Where's Mr Ferret

I'm sorry…it's finally happened. I've been reduced to toilet humour in my desperation to end this story. Feel free to flame me – just don't do it too close to Oghren…because you know…KABOOM!

Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter. I hope you're all feeling better now.

-oo-

**Chapter 28 – Where's Mr Ferret?**

Bodahn Feddic grinned, showing not only gold teeth, but some jewelled ones too. "Ah…" he threw his arms out in welcome. "And here's my favourite Grey Warden. How goes it, friend?"

Merran had a half smile for the merchant, tapping the side of her nose with a forefinger. Bodahn nodded in understanding, indicating with a toss of his hairy grey head to follow him. He led her to an old mine entrance, once accessible from the lower end of Redcliffe Village. It had been boarded up now, the mine shaft no longer considered safe. The approach was wide and relatively flat, with few places for people to hide, should they consider listening in to a conversation that did not wish to be heard.

"I like this cloak and dagger stuff." Bodahn rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "I hope you have a good lead for me Warden, not that you've ever let me down."

"Well," Merran cast a wary look over her shoulder, nervous. She didn't mind Leliana and Zevran listening in; it would save her having to explain later, but she didn't want Wynne or the others to stumble in on this discussion with Bodahn.

"Not _yet_," Merran warned him. "This – this is heading into dangerous territory however."

Bodahn laughed. "When has it _never_ been dangerous, Warden?" He shook his head, his expression sobering at her continued seriousness. "Ah well, speak your mind. You know me: I won't take it on if there's a chance the water might be too deep, but if you don't ask, well…"

"There are two things…" Merran began. She explained her requests, Bodahn listening carefully, now and again nodding his head in understanding. When she finished, he held out his hand almost immediately for her to shake.

"That doesn't sound so bad to me," he stated, jewelled smile flashing again. "You can count on Bodahn Feddic to deliver!"

"You're sure about this?" Merran asked, concern wrinkling her forehead. The merchant chuckled good-naturedly. Merran knew the signs – he'd weighed the risk against the potential for profit – and found profit the better deal.

"What's a little risk, now and again, eh?" Bodahn flashed his teeth at her. "Now…as to our _other _arrangement…"

-oo-

Alistair stood at the bridge to Redcliffe Castle. The stone walls and cone-topped towers loomed even more than he remembered. His reluctance for meeting the Arl added extra metres; kilometres to the structure's height. He should wait for Merran and the others, but where were they? He did not want to meet with the Arl on his own - not that he disliked the man exactly. Arl Eamon _did_ take him in after all when he could just as easily have sent him off to an orphanage or sold him into slavery as soon as the King was dead. No one would have cared either. Taking custody of a child that was not only his, but the product of an affair between his brother in law and a woman not his sister would have been difficult for anyone.

Merran's example did cause him to wonder what life would have been like if Isolde had accepted him, even tolerated him and let him into the house or even within ten metres of her. Merran's parentage had been questionable too, but she had been brought up amongst people that cared about her – or so she claimed. He remembered the environment in the Mage's Tower as cold, stern, regimented. The Templars kept a tight rein on all mage activities. Alistair had found his single week's experience at the Tower depressing. Listening to Jowan and Merran speak about their life there, one would think they were describing an entirely different planet altogether. One where fun was allowed, and laughter and pranks were tolerated – and at certain times of the year, even_ encouraged_.

It was quite unlike the chilly nights spent in the Redcliffe stables and the even chillier ones imposed upon him in the monastery where an austere, ascetic regimen was believed to build sturdy, loyal servants of The Maker and his beloved Prophet. Perhaps that was why Templars disliked mages so much; because despite the sometimes harsh conditions placed upon them, they still managed to find a little bit of greenery amongst the cold winterscape; a ray of sunshine through dark rainclouds.

He felt envious of Merran and Jowan. Just a little…Well, all right, a _lot_. The close bond the two had formed appeared near unbreakable and he envied that, wishing that he too had known Merran all her life. While his first meeting with her at Ostagar felt like years away, actually _knowing _her felt like mere seconds; moments. It wasn't enough.

Submerged in the mire of his thoughts, Alistair did not realise Zevran was beside him until the elf spoke. "Alistair, my friend…may I offer you a bit of advice?" And then he was too distracted by his thoughts to actually make an intelligible response.

Barely looking at the elf he stared depressingly up at Castle Redcliffe's many towers, counting the arrow slits in his head. "Thanks," he muttered. "But I like my hair the way it is."

"Truly?" he heard Zevran respond, bewildered. "If you…say so. But this concerns another subject." _Hm? _Did the elf want to talk about something else? Cheese perhaps? He could talk about cheese all day.

"The matter I speak of concerns your fellow Grey Warden."

Alistair looked at the diminutive elf now. _Have I missed something? I have, haven't I?_

Ruthlessly, Zevran continued. "I couldn't help but overhear your…_exertions_ last night."

"What? My…!" Alistair finally blurted, glowing red from his toes all the way to the tips of his ears. "I'm sorry," Alistair managed, fighting to replace the air that had just been knocked out of his lungs. "Did I hit my head? Are we really having this conversation?"

"Well," Zevran shrugged. "It sounded like all was going well, when…There appeared to be a great deal of…laughter."

Zevran didn't think it was possible for the Grey Warden to turn any redder, but he did it. If this were night time, the glow from larger man could be used to illuminate the many treacherous, gravely paths around Redcliffe Castle. Looking anywhere but at Zevran, Alistair stuttered self-consciously, "Wh-what c-can I say? I'm a very funny man." Did that work? He _hoped _that worked. He looked around frantically. Where were the others? They shouldn't keep the Arl waiting…

Zevran shook his head, as though on the verge of simply giving up on his friend. "You are a veritable comedian" he admitted. "I will remember how funny you are the next time I need entertainment for a party. However…while I agree a little bit of playfulness has its place under the sheets, as it were, I cannot help but think that perhaps the humour was a bit…too much…? The mage did not stop laughing – were you telling her jokes _all _night?"

He had no defence. Merran _had_ laughed. A lot. He knew somewhere, somehow, that the very first time with his love should not be a comedic moment – several comedic moments in fact, but he hadn't even considered until now that the rest of the camp would get _involved_. He should have known better. Between the loud crash his pile of armour had made falling over, the tent collapsing on the both of them and Merran's sudden fit of the giggles, he shouldn't really be surprised. On top of it all, Leliana had for some reason only known to herself, begun to sing outside their tent. If he'd wanted musical accompaniment, he would have asked for it…but he was quite sure he hadn't even mentioned it in passing.

Having someone sing in a high pitched voice was all and well if one had a goblet of wine in one hand a slice of cheese in another, but not when you were about to…well it had been very off-putting.

So had storming out of the tent to tell her off, realising belatedly that he was completely naked…

"You know I...um, that is…" Alistair began, then pointed suddenly behind Zevran. "Oh look, a cloud!" And he ran.

-oo-

Jowan had clearly said something that made Morrigan laugh. Merran frowned, chewing unhappily on her lower lip. She'd noticed the two of them spending most evenings together; Jowan leaving Morrigan's tent in the early hours of the morning, before anyone else was up and about. During the day they were even more circumspect as Jowan was never one for public displays, but it was obvious where his heart lay. She didn't want to interfere…The Maker knew she was the last person qualified to give relationship advice but…and she _liked _Morrigan…She found a hand on her shoulder. The hand belonged to Leliana, concern shadowing her eyes.

"Is this really necessary?"

It took a few minutes for Merran to realise the redhead wasn't talking about her best friend and the witch, but about the conversation she'd had with Zevran and herself earlier.

Turning away from the happy couple, Merran continued along the path to the bridge.

"I need to make sure, Leliana," she said firmly "On both counts. The Arl will call a Landsmeet. It will be the only way for the Bannorn to legally challenge General Loghain without further bloodshed." She shook her head. The news of what had happened at Wintersbreath disturbed her. The Hero of the River Dane…willingly sacrificing soldiers to oppress the very people he had fought to free disturbed her. She had not thought him stupid before, but she did think him desperate and insane now. Bodahn had told her several more stories; of how at the battle, soldiers thought dead marched with the darkspawn against their former comrades. The next day, the dead rose again to fight another battle. It was just like Redcliffe Village – except the transformation into ghouls was not due to a demon, but the Taint.

And if the Taint had spread as far as the Bannorn…

"This is getting complicated…" she muttered despondently.

"_That's _understating it!" Leliana exclaimed. "But…what if you are wrong?"

"Then it will still be complicated," Merran sighed, scrubbing tiredly at her face. "Blessed Andraste's galoshes, I'm tired…Is it me, or is this Blight ageing us all prematurely?

Leliana made a cooing noise. "Are you sure you're not tired because Alistair kept you up last night?"

"I don't kiss and tell."

"Oh? Is that all you did? From the noises, I was sure there was more than that going on."

Alistair…he wasn't going to understand this, but she knew that he would do his duty. He was nothing if not dutiful…and sweet, and charmingly awkward and stubborn as all hell and annoying and adorable and far, far too good to waste on a dying, taint-rotted thing like herself. _I just don't have enough time – I need to be in several places at once to do all of this…_

"Will you and Zevran be able to leave when I ask?" Merran asked quietly, with a quick look over her shoulder beforehand. Leliana sighed – and nodded her head. Yes. "Thank you Leliana, you're a good friend."

"Hm…I'll remember that the next time Alistair breaks my lute…"

-oo-

They were quite a crowd, waiting in the narrow antechamber outside the Arl's study. Shale and Sten had insisted on coming, the wooden floors protesting under the golem's heavy tread. A door closed a little further down the hall, servants scurried, the sight of so many odd-looking people squeezed into one small space causing second, third and even fourth looks from the busy castle staff.

There was a crash on the other side of the door, followed by giggling. Something thumped from one end of the room to the other.

Bann Teagan stood by the door. He directed his attention resolutely to the plush carpet at his feet as laughter followed yet another resounding crash.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon, Sers…" The Arl's Seneschal entered the antechamber, appearing slightly out of breath. He squeezed past Shale, stopping to straighten his tunic before reaching for the door handle. He opened it, just as the Arl's voice rang out, "Where's Mr Ferret?"

It was followed by a female voice giggling, "There…he is!"

As the door closed behind the Seneschal, the temperature in the anteroom plummeted.

"It sounded like he was playing 'Where's Mr Ferret?'," Merran commented in the awkward silence. Alistair blushed to the roots of his teeth. When she added, "Oh, I love that game!" he choked on a sudden dose of astonishment and shock. Merran looked around at the faces above her, frowning. "Why, has no one played 'Where's Mr Ferret' before?" she asked. Alistair stared hard at the mage. What _did _those mages _really _get up to in that Tower?

He looked at Jowan, who appeared puzzled. "I've never heard of it before" the other mage said with a shrug.

"I used to play it with the Knight Commander," Merran told him, peering at the door and so was completely unaware her best mage friend had just turned the colour of eggplant and appeared to be having great difficulty breathing. Recovering slightly from the shock, Alistair was now able to turn his attention to his inner turmoil. Every square inch of his skin threatened to self-combust as he tried to decide between being outraged and wanting to ask her how this game was played…and did it involve either of them getting naked or even partially naked? Any kind of naked would be good, in fact.

He was saved from needing to resolve this dilemma by the door to the Arl's study opening. The Seneschal bowed to everyone.

"His Grace will see you all now."

The group trooped obediently into the room. Inside, the Arl waved to them, his hand appearing oddly shaped. A pretty maid sat on the edge of his desk. She slid off with a rather coquettish glance towards the Arl before excusing herself. As he drew closer, Alistair saw that there appeared to be some kind of puppet on the Arl's hand. He looked over at Bann Teagan, the obvious question in his eyes, so he missed the Arl changing direction suddenly to Merran. He only heard the giggle and her voice ask, "Where's Mr Ferret?" He turned back to see Eamon making a poor show of hiding the glove puppet then springing it on her, the two of them chanting together, "_There he is!_"

Bann Teagan groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"Oh hullo, Teagan!" The Arl appeared to notice his younger brother, casting him an enthusiastic greeting. "You look dreadful!" And then he appeared to notice the other people in the room. "Good gracious! You've been breeding! I'm sure there are a lot more of you than the last time we met."

"Oh, well spotted," Shale commented sarcastically. "This one's so sharp we could cut bread with it."

"Brother…" Bann Teagan stepped in front of the golem as the Eamon raised his head to gaze up at the rock creature. "Anthony and his companions have returned from the Dwarven capital and the Brecilian Forest. The last of the Treaties with all the races of Ferelden have been secured. We need now only confront Loghain in his seat of power…"

"Best to catch him in the best seat in the house!" Eamon quipped, chuckling at his own joke, when no one else did. "So…" he stroked his beard in thought. "The Elves _and _the Dwarves, you say? Pity there won't be any humans left to fight this war by the time Loghain's finished in the Bannorn!" Teagan breathed a small sigh of relief, glad his older brother had been able to turn his attention to more important things.

"We have our allies, despite Loghain's best efforts," Eamon continued. "And now we must strike while the ire is hot…make hay while the sun still binds…a stitch in time is a tear saved…a rolling stone gathers no horse…many hands make shite work…too many cooks will toil the broth, etcetera, etcetera…

"To that end we _must_ challenge Loghain where he is most weak! Just under here." He pointed to a spot on his side, just under his armpit. "If we strike him there-" he made a sharp, jabbing motion to his side. "He'll fall over and start crying for his mummy, you mark my words!"

"What about Adelyn, Eamon?" Bann Teagan reminded his sibling.

"Oh? Have we been introduced?" Eamon asked.

Alistair sighed heavily. "He means _me…_"

"Oh yes, I've certainly been introduced to _you, _my handy little, stringed puppet." He clapped his hands together. "Now, here's what I propose. We travel to Denerim, where I call a Landsmeet. Considering the ire Loghain has raised amongst the Bannorn, they'll agree readily enough to vote for the succession. Anora may have been queen when my nephew was alive but when we've finished with her, she'll be just another little miss nobody with a posh accent. Once we've called for the vote, we'll throw young Alistair here to the wolves, citing blood ties to the great lines of King Calenhad, glory, victory, history once more repeating itself, tum te tum te tum…!"

He sighed, hand over his chest. "Oh I do surprise even myself sometimes with how brilliant I am. And then…and _then…_!" He stabbed a finger at Alistair. "Once the crown is on that fuzzy little bastard-head, I'll simply work behind the scenes, subverting all his edicts and decisions, manoeuvre a convenient treaty with Orlais, marry the Empress Celene on the sley and then one day the King has a tragic riding accident and his Grand Chancellor is declared King! Is that a brilliant plan, or is that a _brilliant_ plan?"

"That's a _terrible _plan!" Alistair exclaimed. "'Tragic riding accident'? I'm allergic to horses! I wouldn't even go near one."

"Oh stop your whining," Eamon snapped. "No one asked _you._"

"Eamon," Bann Teagan held up his hand as Alistair stepped forward angrily. "Will this truly work? Anora's very commonness makes her a popular ruler. Unseating her using someone unknown, Theirin blood or no could be more difficult than you think."

"Oh don't be such a spoilsport, Teagan! It won't be the _people _that decide their queen. What do you think this is; a democracy? I honestly don't know what is wrong with young people these days – all those odd notions you picked up in the Free Marches is subversive, Teagan. In my day we had a tyrannical despot ruling this country and if it was good enough for me, it'll be good enough for you too!"

Silence fell upon the room. Arl Eamon pinned everyone with a stern glare.

"Are we agreed?" he asked.

Bann Teagan ran a tired hand across his brow. As he was about to answer, there was a loud _brrrrrrpptt_ noise and the corner cleared to reveal a shaggy dwarf, looking rather sheepish.

"Aw, pardon me, your Bannshipness," Oghren grunted. "Beans for lunch, ya know…"

-oo-

What was it about this smell…Merran wandered across the pock-marked landscape, the boulders and pebbles resolving themselves into sun-bleached skulls and bones as she neared; stark white against the blackened ground. Above her the sky bled, tainted red. The Veil here was thin – she could sense the presence of hunger and rage demons prowling for likely survivors, but keeping clear of her. They would starve here Merran mused, her hand pressed against her face against the stench.

After fighting darkspawn for so long, she was almost immune to the detritus and misery the dark ones left behind. _Almost._ The smell still made her stomach churn. And the pain was getting worse. Merran staggered, her right knee collapsed and she fell heavily to the ground. Her shoulder slid across the tainted gravel, flesh gouging and tearing under her weight. Levering herself upright, she forced herself to continue walking. Her target was the unmoving shape in the distance.

The shape shifted, elongating. One limb uncurled, tattered skin stretching. The scaly head swivelled around slowly, regarding her with eyes of black pearl, then dropped down again, as though too weary; its head too heavy to hold aloft for any length of time.

_The Dark Ones march…and I with them._

Merran sunk to her knees, too tired to continue walking any further.

"It won't be long now," she assured the dragon, the ground turning to liquid beneath her splayed hands. Sand shifted. While the liquefying soil consumed her, something else rose; a lumpen distorted shape. As she sunk to her middle, Merran realised the shape was the body of a soldier in twisted splintmail…

She opened her eyes, then opened them again, her breath expelled in rapid misty puffs in the darkened tent.

"Merran?"

The tent flap lifted before she had a chance to properly compose herself. Alistair's anxious head appeared, backlit by the campfire. He was wearing splintmail…

Her skin grew cold, the memory of her Fade dream sending her into action before she could stop herself. She flew at him, tearing at his mail, screaming. She found her hands being pinned to her sides.

"Merran, calm down – what is it?"

"Never wear this again," she sobbed. "Not the splintmail…never the splintmail…" The image of Alistair's dead face on the soldier rose in her mind. She resolutely pushed it away. It didn't have to be that way. She wouldn't let it be that way.

Alistair chuckled. "Is that all it is? I was in the process of getting ready for bed," he explained. "You know I wear this under the plate…" He wrapped his arms around her more securely. "You want to tell me what this is about?"

"What's going on here?" Jowan demanded, his shirt tails flying behind him, hair unbound, Morrigan trailing. The others appeared too, Leliana's head from her tent and Wynne emerging fully clothed from hers, a shawl tied around her shoulders. Cullen nosed Merran's arm, whining in concern.

"Just a nightmare," Alistair told them all. "You can all go back to bed."

"Myeh…" Oghren grumped on the other side of the fire. "Can't get a night's bloody sleep around here…"

Jowan placed his hand on Merran's head, magic crackling down his arm.

She emerged from the safe confines of Alistair's embrace, blinking and wiping her nose with her sleeve. "You didn't have to do that, Jowan."

"Yes, I did," Jowan told her. He looked sharply at Alistair. "What's wrong?" The Grey Warden was looking around. Alistair stepped away from Merran, legs carrying him rapidly to the pile of weapons by his tent.

"Darkspawn!" he yelled. The ground erupted.

A Shriek charged at Merran, knocked sideways by Cullen's bulk. It was ice, then it was a shattered pile of defrosting gore as Merran froze and Cullen shattered the frozen Shriek. She was vaguely aware of Alistair's warning cry of "Emissary!' before being surrounded by a swarm of biting things. She set them on fire, but they appeared to be self-replenishing and her magic was being depleted rapidly. _When had the darkspawn learned magic like this…?_

Cullen was yelping in pain, but Merran couldn't see what was going on, batting feebly at the swarm around her head. She stumbled backwards, Alistair's counter spell washing over her. Something thudded heavily beside her and hard hands lifted her to her feet.

"Oops," Shale's amused voice rumbled. "Almost squished you flat! Can't have that, can we?"

Her eyesight cleared. Wynne knelt in front of her. Behind the Senior Enchanter's shoulder, Merran could see the remains of the camp and the darkspawn. At the perimeter, Sten and Alistair were clearing out the last of the Hurlocks and Shrieks. Nearby Jowan and Morrigan were tending to Cullen's injuries. She found a firm hand on her shoulder as she tried to stand, concern for the mabari causing her to ignore her stinging face and hands.

"Let the others deal with the dog," Wynne warned her, viewing Merran's injuries with a critical eye. "You're a mess."

"What was that?" Merran asked. "I could feel it sucking on my magic."

"Because that is precisely what the swarm was doing." Morrigan came to Merran's other side. "Feed on your magic, and thus use it for its own purposes."

Merran considered this. "That's kind of…ick."

Cullen lifted her head, attempting to stand. Finding that she was unable to do so just yet, the mabari belly-crawled to Merran's side, resting her massive, bloodied head on Merran's leg. Without looking at Wynne or the others, Merran stroked the Mabari's ear, rubbing the blood from the shredded fur with her fingers. "They were targeting me, weren't they?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that…" Alistair denied, tapping the end of his bloodied sword on his boot. "Oh all right. Yes, they were."

"What!" Jowan exclaimed.

"It was kind of obvious," Alistair sighed. The Shrieks and Genlocks had surrounded Merran in a tight knot. If it hadn't been for Morrigan and Leliana – _and_ Cullen - close by, he hated to think what might have happened. Merran was a powerful mage, but it _felt _like the darkspawn were learning from their collective experiences with the Grey Wardens. They'd used mana-draining spells on her…He gazed down at his fellow Grey Warden - the skin on her face and shoulders were peppered with angry red marks, fading to pink then to almost nothing as Wynne worked on the bites from the Emissary's swarm. He came to a decision.

"Right," he said in his best Grey Warden voice. He pointed at Morrigan and Jowan. "You two, I want wards set up around the camp's perimeter. Shale, Sten – you're on watch duty. Shale, I want you _in _camp. Sten, you're on the east end of camp – but close by. Leliana, Zevran – second watch."

"What about – hic – me?" Oghren swayed, leaning on the handle of his axe.

"You…Just breathe on any darkspawn that turn up," Alistair told the dwarf.

"And what about you?" Jowan asked, not impressed at all with this new take-charge version of Alistair. Especially since he hadn't appeared to have assigned himself any duties.

Alistair leant down and scooped Merran up. When he stood, he announced. "I'm on _personal _guard duty tonight." When the others did not move, he started for his tent. "Well, don't let me hold you up," he told them. "Carry on…"

-oo-

There had been no further attacks that night. For that, Alistair was glad. Very glad, enjoying the small spot of warmth at his back. The two of them had talked, avoiding words beginning with 'A' and 'D' and then they'd stopped talking and Alistair had been able to make up a little for the fracas of the previous night. All in all, that hadn't been too bad, if he could say so himself. Grinning to himself he rolled over, burying his face in her fur…muttering lovingly, "Darling…" _Wait…_fur…? _FUR?_

Alistair sprang to his feet, the sudden rise of a very tall person in a small tent causing all four tent pegs to eject themselves from the ground. The rope made a twanging noise as all tension left canvas and twine, collapsing like a ribless umbrella. Eventually, Cullen managed to extricate herself from the tent, slinking away to curl up by the embers of the fire. When Alistair emerged from underneath the mess of cloth and rope, he glared first at Cullen – who returned his dark look – then around the campsite.

Zevran and Leliana's tents had been taken down and folded neatly into two piles. So had Merran's. Grasping handfuls of hair, he growled in frustration. How she had managed to leave last night without disturbing him, he didn't know, but he had an inkling it may have been her idea to substitute Cullen…Regardless, she was _gone,_ with no explanation, no discussion – and on the way to Denerim as well. Didn't she know that she, of all people was _needed_ at the Landsmeet? _He _needed her at the Landsmeet. Where in the Prophet's name could she have gone at this time?

Cursing and swearing while pacing, he didn't notice the others waking up, until a folded piece of parchment was thrust into his rage-reddened face.

"I believe you might be looking for this," Wynne told him sternly. "And if you have so much energy at this time of the morning, I suggest _you _fetch some firewood."

Alistair gaped at the parchment. He unfolded it and read…then crumpled the parchment into a tight ball, hurling it into the deadened fire, where it sat unmoving in amongst the cooled logs.

_Highever…She had gone to Highever…_And she had taken the Bard and the Assassin with her...and not him.

-oo-


	29. Plans Afeet

All right, this is long. Feel free to fall asleep while reading…or wander off and do something far, far more important…Also edited while listening to anime soundtracks which were completely at odds to the tone of the chapter. I'm still recovering, but I've managed _not _to have Alistair break into song about the benefits of multi-coloured, vitamin-enriched asparagus…(don't ask)

Thanks to all who reviewed. You're amazing!

-oo-

**Chapter 29 – Plans Afeet**

It was difficult not to keep looking around for Merran and the other two. Alistair used searching for darkspawn as his excuse to do so while travelling on the road to Denerim. Any minute, he would have seen Merran and her escort over the next hill, or around the next bend. They'd pass by this farmstead here and she'd be perched on a fence, legs swinging – or they'd drop into that inn over there to find her at a table with Leliana and Zevran, beating them both in a drinking game where the victor got to keep all their clothes on.

But the hills passed by and the road disappeared behind them with no Merran on it. He was still angry at her for leaving him behind; for excluding him out of her plans; after all this time together, she didn't _trust_ him. But after he'd rampaged about camp he'd had the opportunity to take the bulk of his rage out of a group of darkspawn and his anger had been relegated to the back of his mind, simmering like a good Ferelden lamb and pea stew…and then the worry had set in.

He wondered what was so important in Highever that she would risk not only missing the Landsmeet, but put her own safety at risk as well. If she'd taken Sten or even Oghren with her…well, all right, _not _Oghren – but someone…_adult,_ then he would have felt better. Choosing a loopy bard and an elf that had been hired to kill her would _not_ have been the choice he would have made.

_Ugh…what's the use…?_ What else could he do but trust in her, hope to the Maker she knew what she was doing and would return safely _and _in time for the Landsmeet. If she'd missed it…No, he didn't want to think about what would happen if she didn't turn up…and he especially didn't want to think about her not being _able_ to turn up…

"Oh look! They have a copy of _The Adventures of Roland the Cat_!" Jowan reached over Alistair's startled shoulder, grabbing a blue cloth bound novel from the bookshelf. "I loved that book. Someone borrowed it from the Tower library and kept forgetting to return it. Sodding nug humper…"

Alistair blinked at Jowan, his thoughts returning to the present. Hearing a dwarven epithet pronounced in the very proper accent of a Circle-raised mage – and one with a mild, tenor voice at that, just…wasn't quite right. He stood aside, allowing Jowan to browse this section of the Arl's library. Mages and their books…Wynne was currently curled up like a cat on a chair, her nose immersed in a copy of _A Thousand and One Nevarran Nights_, which he was quite sure was a Chantry-banned publication. Trust a noble to have a copy in his collection, though…he wondered if Wynne would let him read it after she was finished. He'd heard it was _illustrated…_

Everyone seemed to be relaxed, passing the time until the Landsmeet. The Arl was seated at his desk with Bann Teagan, the two of them poring over a copy of _The Denerim Crier_, catching up on events happening in the capital. Morrigan…he didn't really care where Morrigan was or what she was doing…Shale stood in a corner, doing her statue impersonation but after thirty-odd years of decorating a town square, he supposed old habits died hard. Oghren was pretending to be awake, propped on his axe, but his nodding head and the odd snore said otherwise. Sten and Cullen meanwhile were engaged in an intense game of Plonk which the mabari appeared to be winning. As Alistair decided what to do next, there was some sort of commotion outside. Voices were raised, leading to what seemed like a scuffle just outside the library door. The Arl half-rose, frowning as the group of armed soldiers barged through the door.

Alistair's jaw clenched, his hand automatically reaching behind him for his sword – belatedly remembering it was in his room, along with his armour and other battle accoutrements. He would not soon forget the sight of this particular individual – specifically the sight of this particular individual fleeing from a battle site without even drawing his sword, abandoning his King and the Grey Wardens to their deaths. General Loghain had them all at an advantage – he was in full plate armour and he was accompanied by an armed escort – but Alistair itched to have his hands around the man's throat all the same.

"Well Eamon…" Loghain drawled. "I wondered when you would crawl out of your hole…"

"Yes, well I thought the Denerim air would do me good," Eamon replied serenely. "I thought I might try The Pearl's new Hot Spa Retreat and Pamper Palace. I hear they do things with heated rocks that would knock your greaves off."

"Bah!" The General spat derisively. "Only an _Orlesian_ would consider something so namby-pamby…!"

"Well I'd recommend it," the Arl insisted. "I'm older than you and look at you: crows feet, sunspots, hideous bags under your eyes. You've clearly spent far too much time exposed to the elements without proper care of your complexion. I would recommend a genuine Tevinter mud-bake and massage – not to mention a bit of a touch up. Have some pride, man; your _roots _are beginning to show."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Eamon – but know this! I have it on good authority that there are _Orlesian _spies currently in your company and I intend to _root_ them out before they take over the country…stealing our jobs and our women…"

Alistair folded his arms, assessing the General's armed escort and wondering whether if he asked Jowan to electrocute them or boil them in their armour, anyone would hear. He was grateful Leliana was not here, but he was also grateful he wasn't a Templar. He'd be forced to arrest himself for such murderous thoughts.

The Teyrn stalked about the room, muttering "I'll get to the bottom of this…Do not underestimate me, Eamon. I know an _Orlesian_ when I smell one…YOU!" he pointed an accusing finger at Wynne. "You're a mage. Everyone knows mages are _Orlesians_!"

"Loghain," Eamon began tiredly, "Is this really necessary…?"

"Ah-ha!" He leapt towards Jowan, who shrank backward. "You have black hair – _Orlesians _have black hair."

Recovering rapidly, Jowan snapped back "So do you, if you haven't noticed!"

Ignoring Jowan's offended observation, Loghain pushed Eamon aside rudely, peering under the desk. "Oh ho…!" He lifted up books, peering into the teapot, sniffing, nostrils flaring, "Is this _Orlesian _tea – it _is, _isn't it? I think I'll be _confiscating _this as evidence."

His tour of the room eventually brought him to Oghren, still snoozing on his feet in his corner. "Ah-ha!" he announced triumphantly, startling Oghren awake. "An _Orlesian _cunningly disguised as a dwarf! I knew I would root you out sooner or later!"

Oghren began to raise his battle axe, growling "I'll give _you _rooting out, you soil-sodding son of a…"

"Personally, I think this a marvellous opportunity to _crush_ its head into unrecognisable mush. May I? Oh _do_ say, I can…"

"Ah-ha!" Loghain pointed at Shale. "A talking rock _Orlesian! _Just say the words _blancmange_…go on, I dare you. I wager that will reveal your true identity as an _Orlesian_ spy…!"

"Loghain, I hardly think you accusing everyone in the room, excluding yourself, as an Orlesian spy productive," Eamon said wryly. "I have called the Landsmeet to resolve the very worrying development in the governing of this country…"

"There is nothing wrong with the current rule!" Loghain slammed his gauntleted fists into the desk, causing the tea things to rattle noisily. A single petit four fell from the plate onto the floor, which Loghain pounced upon, trampling ruthlessly into the carpet. "Die, delicious _Orlesian _baked goods!" He bent down to gather the pulverised crumbs, throwing them at Arl Eamon. "You were always an _Orlesian _sympathiser, Eamon. Only _Orlesian _sympathiserswould serve _Orlesian _pastries with tea! _And _I have ruined your _Orlesian _silk carpet…so _there_…"

He jabbed an armoured finger at the Arl, "I'll expose you Eamon, for the traitorous spy that you are! Mark my words! I'll see you brought down and brought to justice! You and your _Orlesian _allies and your _Orlesian…_things!" With the threat of dire consequences hanging in the air, the Teyrn of Gwaren, General of King Maric and King Cailan's forces, and Hero of the River Dane turned and stalked out of the room, his retainers following him like little satellites destined to orbit the old General until the local sun went supernova and sucked everything into a destructive black hole.

After he had left, the Arl made a noise of pure disgust. "Orlesian indeed! The man always was an insufferable, cheating, quoits-cheater!"

-oo-

Check. Check and_…check…_Merran read down to the last of the instructions, making a mark next to the final line with a bit of charcoal. As she rolled up the list, she looked up. Zevran approached from the other end of the street, leaping nimbly over a greasy puddle, wiping something from his hands. Considering how meticulously clean the elf was, it could have been a bit of pollen or a stray dog hair. He'd already cleaned all the blood off…

"Our lovely client certainly does not ask for much," he commented.

Merran frowned, waving the wad of parchment in her fist. "Yes she does. Look at this list – it's _five _pages long…!"

"I was being ironic, my beautiful battle mage."

"No you weren't, smarty-breeches," Merran poked him with the end of her magic staff, inadvertently zapping him with mild sparks of electricity. "You were being sarcastic again.

Zevran grimaced at her, rubbing his chest. "There's never pulling the wool over _your _eyes."

"Nope." Merran looked around his shoulder, spotting a flash of auburn hair. She waved at the group by the tree, blushing. "Wow…" she giggled. "The boys here are sooooo cute…" What was his name again? Morris? Sora? Soris, that was it. She'd promised Leliana an address, as the two of them hadn't really had a chance to get to know each other since they'd found each other on opposite sides of a torture cell, so Merran had promised _details_…Young love…it just warmed her cockles…

"Be thankful your Templar boyfriend is not within earshot."

"I…was just _looking, _Zevran. Looking is perfectly all right." She stopped and thought this over. "Isn't it? It is, right?" Zevran made a 'psht' noise and began walking away, Merran skipping after him anxiously. "You won't tell him right? Will he get upset, if I thought some other man was really good looking – oh you know what? He knows that I think you're good looking _and_ he doesn't care."

"Well, that is to be expected. He has recognised my Alpha Male status," Zevran replied.

"Yeah, and I think Sten is good looking too."

"I think we are beginning to veer slightly off our path here."

"Oh…and Oghren's got the most beautiful eyes I've seen on a dwarf…"

"Stop." Zevran held up his hand. "Are we discussing the same…? Never mind." He looked up at the Tower of Drakon, visible from this end of town. The sun was currently at the level of the topmost tier, but by the time they reached the other side of the city, it would be dark and he did not relish navigating the streets of Denerim with an Obvious Mage in tow. "We had best make haste, if we are to return to the estate in time for dinner."

Merran hesitated, tapping her fingers together the way Alistair did. Except when she did it, Zevran began to feel nervous, as though the ground was crumbling beneath his feet and there was no way to stop it, except hope the fall into the chasm would not be too long or too deep.

"You wish to stop by Leonora's for refreshments, _amora_?"

"No…and why do you keep calling me a rayfish? Are you saying I have a sting in my tail?"

"Believe me, if I was to refer to you as a _moray,_ Merran _amora_, I would…never mind." Zevran rolled his eyes. The other reason for returning direct to the estate was that if they took too long, Leliana would be forced to be very…_bardic_ with him – and that was to be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, the mage would not let him out of her trap until she had completed what she had in mind. These last few days had taught him how much he had underestimated her. He had thought there were hidden depths before, but now he knew there were entire chasms with whole civilisations yet to be discovered within that mage mind of hers.

He sighed in resignation. "What is your wish, battle maiden?"

Merran smiled a winsome smile, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Oh you know," she tossed off casually. "There's this _warehouse_ that I'd like to visit_…_To…restock and so forth. Maybe pick up a few Grey Warden souvenirs? For you know…everyone. Because there's nothing worse than coming back from holiday empty handed."

-oo-

"Alistair, may I have a word?"

Alistair paused in the hall. After Loghain had finished his 'inspection' of the Arl's residence, he had wanted to flee the library; maybe sneak out to the Gnawed Noble for some blue ruin, or red ruin or even some mildly pink ruin…whatever they called it, but Senior Enchanter Wynne appeared to have other plans for him.

He fixed a cooperative smile on his face "What can I do for my second favouritest mage?" he asked.

"May we speak privately in your room?" Wynne asked quietly.

"Why, Wynne!" Alistair pretended to be surprised. "I didn't know you harboured such feelings for me. If I had known, I would have ordered flowers and a minstrel…"

"Believe me, young man, if I took an interest in you, you would be fleeing for the hills by now."

Alistair grimaced…fleeing for the hills…it was a nice thought…The ships that moored here at the Denerim port could take him to the other side of the world, if he wished…He agreed to the talk, gallantly bowing her into his room. She shut the door firmly behind him, feeling the prickle of magic as she cast some kind of spell on the door – locking it, he wondered? Or making it non-eavesdroppable? It made him nervous.

"Now Alistair," Wynne began, hands clasped. "You must know - the plans the Arl have for you fills me with disquiet." Alistair suppressed a snort of derision. _That _was understating it…Although he was glad that he wasn't the only one who feared for his life and sanity.

"The man makes plans for being the power behind the throne…" The Senior Enchanter paced, wringing her hands. "I find it quite difficult to trust a man that has displayed such little thought or consideration for others…" She stopped and looked at Alistair directly. "While I was not there to witness the events at Redcliffe, I have learned enough to know that the man's very lack of regret or mourning for his wife's passing shows a ruthlessness; an inability for empathy that cannot serve this country well."

Alistair kept his expression perfectly schooled, allowing only one eyebrow to rise slightly on his forehead. _This _coming from someone who lectured at least two people in their group about how _falling _for one of their companions was going to bring death and ruin to all? But Wynne did not see it that way, continuing to pace the room.

"I can help you, Alistair…_We _– the Circle of Mages can help you," she said. "The assistance you have rendered the Circle can begin to be repaid when you are King." She stopped, looking at him. "Are you going to ask me what kind of 'payment' I mean?"

"Oh, um sure. What kind of payment do you mean?" Alistair said obediently, feeling disquiet of his own.

The Senior Enchanter smiled her gentle, grandmotherly smile, setting his teeth on edge. "I have a cunning plan that cannot fail" she told him. "When you are made King, you will have the opportunity to appoint me as an advisor. The Circle has eyes and ears in all corners of Ferelden…" When she smiled the same smile at him again, Alistair felt his blood fizz in anxiety. "We can ensure that the Arl's plans for domination do not come to fruition…" And now she was looking at him expectantly.

Feeling he should say something, anything, he settled with; "Really…?"

"Of course, some level of independence would need to be granted to the Circle of Mages. We cannot have Templars interfering in the work Mages do for the good of Ferelden."

_Right. No. Can't have that…_

Wynne smiled again, "So we have an accord then?" _Do we?_

"I will…consider carefully your most thoughtful proposition" Alistair told her, hoping that would be enough. Luckily, it seemed to be. Wynne's smile broadened and she released the door from its spell, opening it and stepping outside.

"It's always such a pleasure to deal with you, young man. You'll go a long way."

_I'm certainly hoping to, _Alistair thought as she closed the door. A long, long way from _here_…

After the senior mage left, Alistair sat on the edge of his bed, dropping his head into his hands. Where the heckwas Merran? He needed her _here_ to protect him – to distract Eamon from his plans of world domination, to be his buffer between himself and the rest of the world…to just give him a hug, damnit! Darkspawn? Easy. Raising an army to combat the Blight? Also easy. Fending off the political aspirations of every Tom, Dick and Eamon? He'd…probably have to get back to that one later…

There was a knock on the door. Hoping, but not really believing it was Merran, Alistair answered it, surprised to see Bann Teagan outside.

"May I have a word?" Teagan asked.

Alistair sighed. "Why not?"

Teagan looked both ways down the hallway before he carefully shut the door. Clasping his hands behind him in a gesture reminiscent of his older brother, Teagan paced around the sparse collection of furniture in the room. He stopped and sighed.

"I notice you have been placed in the smallest guest room this estate has."

"I don't mind," Alistair said, feeling the call of that ruin again. "It's cosy." Cosy was good. It reminded him of the comfort of the stables.

"Well, you can take it on record that I am unhappy with my brother's treatment of you," Teagan said unhappily. "Then, as well as now." Alistair sighed. He did have to admit that of all the people that were with him in his youth, it had been Bann Teagan who had been one of the few with any kindness for him, but today was turning out to be an unusually long day and he was rapidly losing the ability to be well disposed to anyone, _kind_ or not.

"So, I must tell you that his plans to rule behind the throne fills me with disquiet." _Really,_ Alistair thought? Must be contagious…"I had not thought my brother so ambitious before. The experience with the demon and the events at Redcliffe must have affected him adversely." Teagan stopped pacing, looking over at the young Grey Warden with regret in his eyes. "I hate to admit it, but I feel my brother may be as mad as Loghain himself." Alistair agreed with that assessment. The two men could probably take that particular act on the road. They would make a fortune.

"And to that end, I cannot simply stand by and let this happen" Teagan added. "I have a cunning plan that cannot fail…"

Alistair _tried _to smile. It hurt his face to do so, but he made the effort anyway.

"Once you are King, I may be in a position to assist," Teagan told him. "If Eamon intends to appoint himself Chancellor, I would stand to take over the Arling. As one of the most influential Arlings in Ferelden, I would have a strong voice in the Landsmeet. I have connections. Together we can ensure that my brother does not wield enough power to the detriment of Ferelden. We can work towards replacing the absolute monarchy with a system of government giving the Bannorns more say. It is after all, the Bannorn, Arlings and Teyrns that make up Ferelden…not the King. The people must have their voice. A rule under Eamon would be no more different than a rule under Loghain." He smiled at Alistair. "So, do we have an accord?" he asked. "Will you work with us, comrade?"

Alistair measured the distance between the door and himself, calculating his chances of being able to flee any significant distance before someone caught up with him and dragged him back. He didn't like the kind of figures that he came up with. So instead he sighed and said, "Thank you Bann Teagan. I will…consider carefully your most thoughtful proposition."

Teagan's smile broadened. "I always knew you were a good sort, Alice. You'll go far."

"Oh," Alistair told him in a flat, humourless voice. "You have _no _idea how far I'll go…"

When the door closed behind Teagan, Alistair counted five breaths. The knock came on the fifth breath _exactly._

"Yes, come in!" Alistair called cheerfully.

The door slammed open, revealing Shale.

"May I have a word with it?" Shale asked.

Alistair threw his hands up in the air. "A word?" he snapped. "Sure, why not? What word would you like? Knobble? Tolumny? How about pifflewinkle?"

"Don't be stupid," Shale rolled her eyes in exasperation. It sounded like two continents colliding with each other. "Knobble isn't even a word. Clearly it is surrounded by mad-its wishing its demise. The kind mage clearly has a preference for it – though I cannot imagine why - and were anything untoward befall it, the mage's eyes would leak disgusting juices. To that end I have a cunning plan that cannot fail."

"Oh…_this _I have to hear…"

"My plan is thus; we wait for all to fall asleep, like the squishy, inefficient bags of goo that they all are…And while slumbering, I shall _crush_ and kill…and destroy!"

Alistair gaped at the golem. As cunning plans went, he rather liked this one. He was about to respond when there was yet another knock on his door. "Oh what!" he yelled. "Come in, whoever you are and tell me your cunning, bloody plan!"

Oghren's shaggy head appeared around the corner. "What's been crawling in _your _britches, pike-twirler?"

"Oghren, I…"

"Ah, don't worry about it" Oghren waved his hand dismissively. "I'm heading down to the Noble. This place is a sodding morgue. Makes a man thirsty for some chuck juice. You with me?"

"Now that…" Alistair sighed in relief, grabbing his sword, "Is a cunning plan that _really _cannot fail.._._"

-oo-

"Ooh…I'll have this, this and…_this…_Hey Zev! What do you think of this little thing here?"

"Oh ho! These Grey Wardens certainly have very interesting tastes." He looked over the selection laid out on the crate lid. "Are you sure these items are ours for the taking?" he asked.

Merran shrugged. "Riordan said 'help yourself', so I'm helping myself." She held up a shield. It appeared to be of elven make; extremely lightweight and crafted from a silvery wood that felt smooth as bark but hard as rock. The tattooed hide stretched over the front was emblazoned with the Warden griffon. Zevran whistled, impressed at the workmanship. He pointed out a slip of parchment, glued to the inside, which Merran read: "'Thus iz the Proppity of the Ward'n Com Der Dunkin'." She looked up at Zevran and grinned. "Oh yeah, this one's definitely coming home with Mama…"

As Merran slung the shield over her shoulder; Zevran gathered up the bone-handled dhurkas he'd been admiring, storing it in his knife pouch. Merran bundled up the rest of the items – the vials had to remain intact for instance – placing them in her bag of herbs where they would remain concealed until their return. Then like shadows the two slipped quietly out of the warehouse and onto the market street. Vendors were beginning to pack away their wares and the smells of cooking tickled their noses, making their stomachs rumble insistently.

In the dark Merran piled into Zevran's back when he stopped suddenly. "What is it?" she whispered. He held up his finger, pressing them to his lips, then pointed them to a couple of gentlemen, staggering from the light of the Gnawed Noble Tavern. They waited until the door had closed then the two of them inched closer.

One of them was talking, his slurred speech indistinct except for a few words here and there, "…hear? Ker-Queen's been…kidnapped…queen-napped…"

"Nooo…!"

"Yeah…!"

Behind him, Zevran could hear Merran's soft laughter. "See?" She whispered, tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. "I told you I had a cunning plan that couldn't fail…" The door to the tavern opened again, the light from within outlining two more figures in the doorway. One of them was hunched over. Although their faces were shadowed, they had seen enough to have recognised them. Zevran felt a tug on his sleeve and from the corner of his eye saw a brief shimmer of iridescent purple. Merran looked up at him – there was no mistaking those brown puppy dog eyes – and Zevran slipped once more into darkness as the two men overtook the first two drinkers and neared…

-oo-

He was coming to the conclusion that he shouldn't have drunk. Oh, and maybe, he shouldn't have drunk. _Have I just said that? _If he had, would that mean that he'd been drunk twice, or just twice drunk?…And wow…Shale was actually kind of attractive, for a lump of rock…but that kind of thinking would be wrong, wrong, _wrong_, because he was already _with _someone so that made him unfaithful, even though _she _was the one who'd _abandoned_ him and…what would it be like to kiss a walking bit of masonry held together by living lava…? It would probably chafe – and she wasn't likely to respect him the morning after…And Merran would be upset – or at least he _hoped _that she would be upset, or at least a little miffed. Miffed would be cute. It sounded small and fluffy, just like Merran.

_I miss Merran…_But I _love _these people that I'm with. How awesome are these guys? There's that dwarf over there that can projectile vomit into a _spitoon_, and belch the Chant of Light – and a stern giant of a man with lavender coloured eyes and a _dog_. Aw…he _loved _dog. Dog was just the _best._ But dog was looking at him funny. _Ha ha…_With that pink fleshy thing hanging out her mouth that just screamed 'I dare you to yank on me'.

He found strong jaws clamped around his wrist and a drooling growl at the end of it. Something was trying to tell him that he should probably sober up now, but his head appeared to have gone on holiday. He wouldn't mind a holiday – somewhere warm, where the people swam in the sea and wore those small, swimming…things. He could get a pair of those swimming…things for Merran. She'd look so cute in it, paddling about in the water…aw, what were they called? Like little life buoys, but for arms…

"Oh good grief Ashleigh, _this _is where you are."

Alistair looked up. There was a vague shape dancing in front of him that looked familiar. What was his name again? The one that kept forgetting his name…Oh ha, ha, now _I _can't remember…

Alistair held up his finger – or at least he thought it was his finger. Maybe it was his toe or even someone else's toe. Either way, he was heading for a really good power hurl soon.

He found himself being moved from this place where there were mugs of ale to somewhere where there _wasn't_ because someone had his arm and was taking him away from it all. The light of the tavern was put behind him and the freezing Ferelden night air hit him like a…well something that would hit him that was cold and uncomfortable and airy. Oh Maker, he was going to be very ill shortly…

"Here," the vague shape suggested. "There's a gutter. You look greener than a frog, and I don't wish to be covered in your bile."

As Alistair thanked the unknown man, who clearly knew him, the entire contents of his stomach decided to go sightseeing on the lovely streets of Denerim, startling a small dog nearby. First they decided to visit the gutter outside the Gnawed Noble Tavern – famous for its selection of the finest alcohol-related beverages in Ferelden. After which they also had a bit of a looksee in the Denerim Market. There were also vomitous visits by the Chantry (the biggest in the country!), the Guardhouse, the old wishing fountain, and the courtyard of Redcliffe Estate where he had to admit, the grass was nice and cool on his cheek. He remembered removing his shirt and tunic because he was warm and he remembered being chased down a hallway to Arl Eamon's study and needing to remove his trousers…and for some reason, Eamon being upside down…

And last of all, before the darkness took him was someone saying the Queen had been kidnapped…by the Teyrn of Highever…But that was stupid…because he'd had it on good authority that the Queen was an _Orlesian _blancmange and would have had to have been custard-napped…

-oo-

"Well, Eamon?"

Arl Eamon curled his lip at the sneering Teyrn and resumed the battle of glares with the straighter, taller, fitter man.

"You appear to be out of allies," Loghain spat. "Pity your _Orlesian _friends appear to have deserted you." He reserved his most derisive glare for Alistair, the younger man's suit of armour shined to a mirror finish that kept making his eyes water – and Eamon kept using him to check that his hair was still in place.

"The Puppet Master and his Puppet has arrived, but alas, all the kiddies have seen this particular pantomime and they know how it ends…rather stick-ily" Raising his voice, he addressed the people gathered in the room. "This man seeks to divide Ferelden into tiny little pieces and throw us all to the _Orlesian _wolves. I – I only seek to protect this country – to reunite it as it was under King Maric's rule…! I ask you; _do _we need _Orlesian _cheese? _Orlesian _silks? Orlesian pumpkins?"

"Well, the cheese is darned special, let me tell…" the voice petered out before the General could source it, staring at the men and women around him with maddened, suspicious eyes.

"And it's a _potiron_, by the way…"

"Arrest that _Orlesian!_" Loghain bellowed, pointing to an elderly man standing by. "Off with his _Orlesian _head!"

"But…Loghain!" Bann Coerlic whimpered as armed guards dragged him out of the room. "I was going to vote for you…!"

Continuing his tirade, Loghain wove in and out of the crowd, ramming his face at random into startled faces and growling at them. "These people have conspired to usurp your Queen and replace it with a _pretender_! Can you seriously believe there is anything in this…this…_cub_ of our good King Maric? Apart from the hair, the build, the face and the voice? Really? His eyes aren't even blue! They're a wishy-washy diarrhoea colour!"

"Oi!" Alistair exclaimed. "I'll have you know a very pretty girl once described my eyes as being like pure amber, so there!"

"Enough about his eyes!" Loghain bellowed. "I spit on his eyes!" He jammed his finger into Alistair's face at the last, causing the young Grey Warden to blush as all attention turned to him. "And where _is_ my daughter? Queen-napped! Trussing her guards like Satinalia turkeys! What have you done with my precious child, fruit of my loins, the light of my life, my sunshine, the very reason I wake up every morning, my poopsie-pie!"

"Uh…" Alistair muttered. "Is it just me, or was that statement really creepy?"

"Creepiness aside," a female voice said from somewhere at the perimeter of the Landsmeet Hall, "I believe I can speak for myself…"

The doors to the Landsmeet Hall creaked impressively inwards – or at least one did, the other got stuck and a couple of guards had to put their shoulders to it. Meanwhile the woman who had spoken had gotten impatient and elbowed her way through.

"Oh bloody 'ell…" she stumbled forwards, straightening her gown and patting the stray hairs back into place on her head. "Now I've gone and forgotten my bloomin' lines."

Composing herself, she started towards the Grey Warden group, hands clasped demurely. She cleared her throat, hand in front of her face, disguising the fact that she was not doing anything as unladylike as clearing her throat. She did however, do a few discreet face-warming exercises, popping a few marbles into her mouth before speaking again.

"Wha ah ea oo shey…oh wuggrit…" She spat the marbles out of her mouth. "Maker, these bloomin' things really give me the collywobbles," she continued; then took a deep breath.

"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, the man that stands before you, is _not _the man you think he is. He is not the Hero of the River Dane. He might look and sound like the Hero of the River Dane as you remember him, but he is not. The man you see before you is also not my father, but someone who only looks like my father. And therefore cannot be the man you think he is, but someone else altogether. He is, as you see him, a man in the armour of the Vanquisher of the Orlesians, Liberator of Ferelden…but he is not. Nor is he General Loghain, the man who fought bravely by the side of our beloved King Maric. Nor is he the man who banned custard from being called anything but custard. He may sound like General Loghain – he may even have the same, distinct hairstyle…but alas…he is not. Nor is he…"

"I think," a familiar voice chirped cheerfully, "we should probably just _move on…_"

Alistair saw the top of her staff moving through the crowd like a shark fin before she squeezed past a couple of Banns, popping through the other side with a bounce in her step and a big grin on her face. It took everything in him not to take the three large steps to reach her and squeeze the stuffing out of her. The smile she gave him had him grinning from ear to ear.

She transferred her smile to Loghain. "Hi there!" she said, holding extending her hand to him in greeting. "How're you doing? I'm Merran! And _you…_" her smile turned slightly feral as she continued grinning up at him. "Are _so _not going to believe the fun that we've been having in Denerim. We've visited the market…and the Alienage…and had this _terrific_ haunted dungeon tour sponsored by the Arl of Denerim – oh, and I have this really _awesome_ souvenir for you."

She held up a gauntlet. It was bloodied and dented, but there was no mistaking the golden colour or the coat of arms stamped into the back of the metal. The _Royal_ coat of arms…"Oh, but I forgot…" Merran's eyes glittered dangerously as she rolled them in mocking self-deprecation. "Silly me! Forget my own head if it wasn't sewn on every morning, tee hee. This isn't from Denerim really…but _Ostagar. _You remember Ostagar don't you? Nice place to visit, wouldn't want to live there…?"

-oo-


	30. Pop! Goes the Teyrn

Author's random thought for the day…5000 + words and counting and this is the reason I couldn't quite fit this chapter into the last. I did try! Honest. And again…listening to at-odds K-pop while trying to write something _serious_. Alistair keeps nicking my iPod and taking it off shuffle, so that _Love Like Oxygen _plays over and over again, imprinting itself on my brain like a Mabari earwurhm…

Thanks as always to the very kind people that review and tag and read…much appreciated – and thanks to Bioware for their super fun sandpit. Or at least, I _think_ I'm still having fun…

-oo-

**Chapter 30 – Pop! Goes the Teyrn**

"Who is this strange person?" "Where did she get that? Did she say _Ostagar…?_" "What's this about the Alienage?" "What's it take to get a sodding drink around here?" "She's seen the King? Is he alive after all?" "Damn fine bosom on the older mage over there, eh?"

Queen Anora allowed the voices of the nobles to wash over her. She knew the origin of every voice and she took note of each comment, storing them away in her mental repository where, over time the information would increase and decrease in interest, depending on the waxing and waning fortunes of the individual. She had been taught to be clever, to observe quietly. To always ensure the mask of competency never slipped…stuck doors and stupid marbles aside. Damn things nearly choked her anyway.

As the lords and ladies of the Landsmeet argued, she spent the time observing them all – her father watching everyone else with narrowed eyes, calculating his next step; Bann Alfstanna – always serene and soft-spoken, even at her angriest, the voice of reason. Arl Bryland, Alfstanna's close friend and polar opposite - a firebrand and an outspoken member of the Landsmeet…

Her eyes came to rest on Maric's bastard and her heart skipped a beat. He did look like Cailan; a younger, sportier version of her deceased husband…taller, browner and…_hunkier…_She had made certain plans before with the mage and her band of _oddities_. With the support of the Grey Wardens, she expected to be confirmed Queen by the Landsmeet and all of the messy business about the Theirin bloodline would finally be put to rest. The Grey Wardens, she intended to leash – with so few of them the likelihood of them surviving the Blight was slim in any case. The bastard she had intended to dispose of. As long as he lived he would be a threat to her rule, but now that she came to lookat him, she thought she might have a _better _use for him…

She was nothing, if not…adaptable. And if the half-Theirin was as much of the half-wit her dead husband had been, he would be easy to steer. She tore her gaze away from him to rest on her father, watching his level of tolerance rise to breaking point. She knew the precise moment he would snap...one, two, three…

"_ENOUGH!"_

"Indeed," Anora need only insert her cultured tones into the pause her father always made after he yelled at anyone. She made the briefest of smiles to the gathered. "The Landsmeet has been called to decide once and for all who will rule Ferelden."

Her father sighed tiredly, "Poopsie-pie, we've already discussed this" he told her. "Let Daddy handle this. You run along and play with your dolls like a good little girl."

Anora drew herself to her full height. As her back was already ramrod straight, this was only half a centimetre, even less, yet she still managed to convey the impression she was at _least _two, full centimetres taller.

"I don't play with _dollies_ any more, _Your Excellency_," she replied coolly. "And it is the Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet who will 'handle this', as you say." She turned to face the Grey Warden mage, only to find that the irascible woman was no where in sight. Slightly annoyed, Anora switched her attention back to the nobles. She had arranged for the Warden-Mage to publicly endorse her but now she had _disappeared._ No matter…

"I think it is fairly well-known that as I have been - in _practice - _ruler of Ferelden for the last five years, I believe it a logical step to put myself forward as the best candidate for this position."

"Anora, _dearest,_" Loghain patted her on the head. "I know you like to think you're in charge, sweetie, but really – who actually _carried _out your orders? Ensured they were followed? You might think that you were in charge, but there is a great deal that you were not aware of. Cailan and his…"

"I do not wish to speak of…!" Anora reined in her unplanned burst of anger rapidly, glaring at her father. "_That _is none of your concern, Your Excellency, and has nothing to do with the matter at hand."

"I agree," Arl Eamon finally spoke. "And as Arl of Redcliffe, I hereby formally endorse Alistair Theirin as candidate for the throne of Ferelden."

Anora smiled the smile of one who knew this was going to go badly for everyone - except her.

"Theirin?" she asked serenely. "King Maric never formally acknowledged the man."

"Still," the Arl insisted. "He is of Theirin blood; the same blood that ran through the veins of the Silver Knight and our beloved King Maric. And it is this blood that should lead this country in its greatest time of need. And as _you _say, it is the Landsmeet that will decide its ruler…"

"A Grey Warden? In charge of Ferelden? _Orlesian _sympathisers?" Loghain spat. "You forget too easily that it was the Grey Wardens who arranged for a legion of _Orlesian_ Chevaliers to cross our borders to fight this Blight – and once the Chevaliers are here, what then? What's to stop the _Orlesians _from taking control of our lands once more?"

"I hardly think a legion or two of Chevaliers capable of a rout, Loghain," Eamon curled his lip. "Were Ferelden _united _under a single, capable King."

"With _you _pulling the strings, no doubt!"

"Enough!" Anora's sharp voice sliced through the arguing men. "We shall allow the Landsmeet to decide!"

"No!" Loghain bellowed. "I will not allow these usurpers and traitors a voice in the Landsmeet! We will settle this like _gentlemen._" He turned to his Captain. "Bring out the quoits!"

There was hurried movement as Loghain's soldiers scurried to comply with his orders. In the bustle, a soft voice spoke "What about a _proper _duel? In the old style? With actual swords?" The crowd turned towards the slender dark haired Bann Alfstanna. "Winner gets to show how strong they are and how capable to lead an army against the Darkspawn. Loser gets to…bleed a lot."

"I agree," Loghain said quickly, before his daughter could suggest something else, like a quilting competition or an apple-bob, completely forgetting that it had been he who had called for the Quoits Set. "But _who_ will be the challenger? You, Eamon? Do you think your old bones up to the task? Or Maric's by-blow?"

Jaw set, Alistair took a step forward. He'd been _waiting _for this moment, when a brown streak leapt in front of him.

"Ooh! Ooh! Mr Regent! I'll do it! I'll do it! Can I? Can I? Huh, huh, huh?"

Alistair placed both hands on Merran's shoulders, exerting a firm pressure downwards. He couldn't stop her bubbling over like an overdone stew, but he could at least stop her from bouncing around like a cricket after an all night binge in a sugar-beet silo. Bending down, he tried to whisper in her ear.

"Um, my love, we do actually want to _fight_ Loghain – not turn him into a pile of drooling mush."

There was a dual metallic scrape as Merran drew two short, curved blades. She held them up for inspection. Alistair's eyes widened. He recognised one of the blades – how many times had he seen Duncan cut down darkspawn with it? How had she managed to…? He never thought he'd ever see anything of Duncan's again. It had been one of his great regrets; that he would never have a chance to inter Duncan's body properly, or have anything to remember him by…but the joy of seeing Duncan's dagger in Merran's hand was quickly stripped away by seeing a _dagger _in Merran's hand.

She was no fighter. Up against a seasoned soldier such as Loghain, she might as well slice her own throat. _That _battle would last a lot longer than one against Loghain.

Merran gave one of her determined giggles. "It's okay," she told him. "I've got these – oops!" She had tried to give one of the blades a fancy twirl, but it had slipped out of her grasp, falling to the floor with a noisy clang. "Butter fingers!"

Alistair had a vision of Merran's bloody body lying in neat little cubes on the Landsmeet Hall floor. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and attempted to drag her away. He'd accept the challenge himself and tie Loghain's butt-cheeks into bows around the man's _ears…_but the General had other ideas, snapping: "I accept the Warden's challenge!"

Alistair's jaw dropped – and then Bann Alfstanna's voice rang out loud and clear: "Then let the duel begin!"

"No!" Alistair finally found his voice. "This can't be legal – this isn't a fair fight!"

"The rules are quite clear," Alfstanna stated, though not without pity in her eyes. "The challenge was given and accepted by both parties. The duel has in effect, begun. I am sorry, Warden…"

"Then I am her second!" Alistair snapped, knowing full well that it would only happen if Merran died – or decided at the last minute to bow out. He doubted the latter would happen. He meant to give her advice; _always keep moving, never let your guard down…_but the guards were clearing a space for the combatants and the crowd pressed him backwards, taking him away from her. He didn't even get a chance to wish her luck – or to tell her he loved her or…_why is she WHISTLING?_

His blood ran different kinds of cold when Merran deliberately turned her back on Loghain, measuring out twelve exaggerated paces. Then she realised she was too far, and skipped closer, whistling a merry tune that Alistair recognised as _Pop! Goes the Mabari_...

She had barely gotten to the Pop! bit when Loghain charged…

-oo-

Zevran tightened the knot, kissing his fingers and placing them on the soldier's lips. He cared little for the flash of anger in response, rising to his feet elegantly. His ears were already on the sounds beyond the door, the clash of metal escaping through the narrow gap. Leliana had already poured oil onto the hinges. Their entry would not be heard by the soldiers, and these ones would not be found by anyone wandering through into the room, hidden as they were behind these most convenient pillars.

After he bowed the others through, he locked the doors behind him. It would take a battering ram to enter now.

-oo-

Alistair tried not to wince; not to blink. But when Loghain had reached the end of his charge, Merran was simply no longer _there._ Instead there was a _tink!_ as the pint-sized mage appeared behind Loghain, tapping the flat of one of her daggers on his armour. The old General's reflexes were quick, swivelling in one fluid moment, his broadsword swinging around in a slicing movement.

_Tink!_ "That's two to me!" Merran chirped cheerfully, appearing behind the Teyrn again. The next time Merran caught the broadsword with both daggers, her feet sliding across the floor as Loghain's momentum forced her backwards. Alistair found his own feet taking him forward – then Oghren's axe appeared in front of his face.

"Fair duel, Warden," Oghren growled. "Mage's choice."

"She's going to get _killed_," Alistair objected, desperate to do something, _any_thing.

"Stand your ground, lad and _look _with your eyes…" Oghren grinned.

Alistair glanced back at the duellers. He'd missed Merran brushing off Loghain's blow. All he heard was that _tink! _sound as Merran's dagger caught the General's oversized pauldrons in yet another mocking salute. He didn't quite understand it…Loghain had the better sword arm, the greater strength, the longer reach and yet Merran was able to weave in and out of Loghain's swings and lunges as though she were nothing more than light and air and couldn't be touched. And then he followed Oghren's advice and _looked_ very carefully.

He would have missed it, if he had blinked; the very faint blue shimmer around her outline, blurring every time she moved. Of course, Duncan's old daggers had been enchanted with lyrium, hadn't they? And she would have had young Sandal enhance that particular aspect. This meant that she would become very dangerous soon. Judging by the number of times she could have died in the last five minutes; she already was.

If he wasn't gut-wrenchingly worried about Merran, he'd _almost _feel sorry for Loghain Mac Tir. But where did she learn to move like that, he wondered?

The crowd winced as Merran ducked, bringing her booted foot up and under, catching her opponent's family jewels. As the Teyrn's eyes bugged, Alistair realised his question had just been answered. There were only two people he knew who would fight that dirty. Even Oghren didn't stoop that low – and _he_ didn't even have to stoop at all.

-oo-

Enraged by the mage's inability to stand still so that he could properly run her through with his sword, Loghain pressed his attack – and then she…_moved._ Before, it was simple ducking, diving, using the polished stone floor to slide around, but now the mage spun like a child's toy, near impossible to see much less hit. He felt a slice across one cheek, then the other and then she was behind him again with a knee to his back, the blades of her daggers positioned on either side of his neck. She felt like the weight of a mountain and he found himself falling to the floor, surprised to find himself gasping for breath.

She had bested him. He had thought her nothing more than a speck in his eye; a minor irritation to be flushed out, but she had _bested_ him – and in an embarrassingly short space of time too.

As she came around to face him, Loghain thought he had never seen anything so terrifying, so beautiful…

"Marry me," he heard himself say. "Join me – and the two of us can rule Ferelden together…"

She smiled down upon him, beatific; glowing with the light of power, her mabari brown eyes cold and hard as permafrost. "Nah…" she replied. "Already taken. But thanks anyway."

"I underestimated you Warden," Loghain admitted, trying to be _nice _about his defeat, but having his marriage proposal turned down…_hurt._ "I had thought you children playing at soldier, just like Cailan…"

Her fists clenched at her sides. "No," she told him, all cheerfulness and humour gone from her voice. "I doubt you thought of us at all."

Bending down, she attempted to pick up his sword, staggering under the weight of it.

Loghain lifted his chin. A warrior he had lived for most of his life. He would end it as a warrior should. "End it quickly, Warden. If I cannot have you by my side, then I do not wish to live…"

"Stop!"

Queen Anora stepped up to her father's side. "Surely you cannot mean to execute my father here and now?"

Merran shrugged. "He just lost – _and _he just asked me to kill him – hello!"

"But…it'll be all icky and his blood might get on my shoes…" Anora complained.

"There is another solution."

The crowds parted to allow a broad-shouldered gentleman through. He was dark-haired, haggard, with the look of someone who had not seen sunshine or civilisation for some time. His cheeks were sunken and bruised but his gaze was determined.

"I propose this," he said in an accent that had Loghain pointing and shouting.

"Ah-ha! I knew it! An _Orlesian_! Say blancmange – go on!"

Rolling his eyes, the dark-haired newcomer simply said, "Custard."

"Fair enough, you're Fereldan."

"Eef I may be eh-lowed to conteenue?" Loghain spread his hands graciously towards the man. Anything for a fellow-Fereldan. "The General is an experienced tactician; a seasoned campaigner. It would be a pity to throw away his life and his expertise," the man said. "What I propose is this: we conscript him into the Grey Wardens…"

"_Absolutely not!_" Alistair stepped forward, his face red with rage. "Being a Grey Warden is not a punishment! This man betrayed the Wardens and left them to die at Ostagar! He's hunted us down like animals, made _us _out to be the traitors! Before Cailan's body was even cold, he declared himself ruler – and you want him to be made a _Grey_ _Warden?_ There is no way…" _POP_!

All eyes in the room turned suddenly to the space where the Teyrn had been, then to the red-faced mage standing near.

"Um…" she began, waving her hands apologetically. "I uh…um…Oh _look_, my hand just _slipped,_ okay? I didn't mean too, honestly…"

There was a loud, froggy croak at Merran's feet. Anora's eyes bulged – and then she started screaming because the slimy, yucky thing was hopping towards her – and pandemonium as the horrible green thing chased her around - then Anora jumping up and down, squealing, "Getitawayfromme…getitaway!" And _then _there was an even more horrible _scrunchhh_ noise…

Anora refused to look down but she could _feel _the very expensive fine silk of her shoes becoming very wet and very slimy.

And then she just fainted.

"Well…" Bann Alfstanna's calm voice rang out in the horrified silence that followed. "Might I propose an adjournment for a few minutes…?"

-oo-

Adjourning the Landsmeet hadn't actually been necessary. As soon as the remains of the…_General _had been reverently scraped off the hall floor and placed into a bucket, it was found that Queen Anora had been faking her swoon. All she needed was a change in shoe and she was ready to resume her campaign for the throne.

Arl Eamon too lost no time in reasserting Alistair's claim by blood. He talked of Alistair's character and the many battles he and his fellow Grey Warden had won against the darkspawn. He gave an account of Alistair's survival of Ostagar against many odds. He described the great body of work the young man had achieved by resolving the leadership crisis in the Dwarven lands. Then he went on about how Alistair The Great had single-handedly fought an entire horde of ravenous werewolves, saving the Dalish Elves from a fate worse than death itself, gaining the trust and respect from these ancient peoples who had for so long foresworn the company of humans…He then related the tale of Alistair The Invincible who had killed not one, but _five _High Dragons using only his wits, a length of twine and a paperclip…

By the time Alistair had circumnavigated the entire continent of Thedas in a leaky thimble, Anora called a halt to the old Arl's ramblings. She allowed herself an amused titter – she had seen the faces of the men and women of the Bannorn, lapping up the Arl's tale-spinning and they had almost been convinced. Almost.

"Before you cast your vote," she raised her voice slightly. "There is something that you should know about this Alistair…_Theirin._" Clasping her hands in a gesture that indicated she was about to either recite poetry or break into an operatic performance, she smiled sweetly at them all.

"I have it on good authority that _this_ man is unfit to rule _because _of his birth."

She waited for this announcement to sink in before continuing. "I have information, passed down from my – from _a reliable _source – that Alistair the Grey Warden is not only half elven, but half mage, half _Orlesian_ and goodness knows half whatever else!"

All eyes turned to Arl Eamon who had the grace to look abashed. "Oh…did I forget to mention that?" Seeing Alistair's pale countenance turned to him in disbelief, he added. "It might be true…it might not…Maric was a _very _diplomatic king…"

"So that means…" Alistair found it hard to breathe, his chest constricted. For some reason all he could think of was that the awful woman he thought was his sister might not be…but it also meant…"…Elves and Mages can't hold titles…" he murmured, though he didn't quite know why; a small voice inside his head reminding him: _but you're not a mage…_

"All children of mages belong to the Chantry." The strident voice belonged to the Revered Mother of the Denerim Chantry, who up until now had been a silent observer from the gallery.

Anora's smile broadened ever so slightly. "True, they do." The least she could do was reward the Warden-Mage for the services rendered to her over the last couple of days. "But Alistair is a Grey Warden, and therefore beyond the reach of the Chantry." She sighed, a mocking sigh that had nothing to do with pity or regret. "Most unfortunately that does not change the fact that Alistair is ineligible for the throne – quite apart from the fact that Grey Wardens do not hold titles. Alas, we appear to have run out of contenders…"

"Actually, Lady Mac Tir, I would probably dispute that particular point."

Anora's eyes narrowed. The voice sounded familiar. So did the pretty face belonging to it.

"Though you maynot remember me," the woman added in a good natured voice, "as you were covered in mud the last time we met …"

Anora's eyes became angry slices across her face – briefly. A moment later, the older woman had composed herself once more into living ice. "Lady Alyssa…" Anora stated, coolly welcoming. "I should have recognised your mannish stench the moment you stepped into this Hall."

"Oh dear, Lady Mac Tir…" Alyssa Cousland replied, completely unruffled. "Resorting to insults already? As I recall…_your_ mud ball was the first to be thrown. You just happened to miss. I didn't."

"And _why _are you here? Come to see me formally crowned? How _sweet_ of you."

Alyssa Cousland merely shrugged, her gaze shifting to Bann Alfstanna and Arl Bryland behind Anora, managing to rake her eyes over Cailan's widow imperiously. It was a gesture that had been bred into generations of Couslands and something that Anora had spent many countless hours practicing in front of a mirror, until her eyes were cross-eyed and itching. She really did despise these poncy nobles…

"The third candidate," Arl Bryland spoke. Anora spun to face the Arl. _Third? What third? There was no _third_ candidate…_

"Five years ago, on the death of our beloved King Maric," Bryland stated, "the Landsmeet convened to consider an individual of upstanding reputation and unwavering service to the country as king. The Landsmeet was fully prepared for this appointment, but the individual in question declined the position, stating full confidence in young Prince Cailan."

Anora knew where this was going. She snickered. "But Teyrn Bryce is dead," she stated, smugly revelling in Lady Alyssa's instinctual flinch. "And so is his son."

She sputtered suddenly, pointing towards Lady Alyssa. "Surely you don't mean to put forward this…_thing_ as queen."

"No, Anora," Bann Alfstanna stated calmly. "Because on one count, you are wrong. The Teyrn of Highever is not dead."

"Wot? You pullin' me leg? Garn!" Anora blurted before she could stop herself. She looked nervously around the Landsmeet Hall. She wondered if Alfstanna was speaking of Fergus Cousland. She had had it on good authority that the elder Cousland had indeed passed away. That 'good' authority had also told her that Fergus had been lost in the battle in the Korcari Wilds, however in that case, a body had yet to be found…

She could not see Fergus Cousland anywhere in the room.

"I'm right here, you know."

Anora turned slowly. She had been taught to be clever, to be observant; to watch others, but the one time she let her guard down had been the one time she shouldn't have. It had been their plan all along, she realised…Alyssa Cousland had been sent to distract her – and Fergus…he was nothing like she remembered him. A patch covered one aquamarine eye, half concealing a ragged scar across his cheek. His once chestnut hair was liberally peppered with streaks of white – as was his short beard. It made him look older, even more like the late Teyrn than Anora expected.

"But I have ruled this country for the last five years!" she told them all, with an obstinate stamp of her foot.

"And allowed your father to usurp that rule," Bann Alfstanna stated quietly. "A rule he was not entitled to. You allowed your father to divide this country and declare war on his own people. With all your supposed insight and intelligence at your command, you still required _outside _assistance to uncover Fereldan citizens being sold into slavery to fund your father's civil wars. And you allowed Rendon Howe to collect titles like nothing more than paintings…worse, you have done nothing to stop this Blight except wave your husband off to war."

"The Howe family are respectable!" Anora shot back. "They have always served Ferelden!"

"I am not talking of the Howe _family,_ but of one individual. Rendon's family should not be tarred with the same brush."

"And do you think I had enough influence with Cailan to stop him throwing his lot in with the Grey Wardens?" Anora tossed her head, clutching at what remaining strips of credibility she had left. "Are you implying that I sent my husband off _hoping _that he would be killed?"

Bann Alfstanna's expression was one of sadness when she replied. King Cailan had been popular. While his vices were well known he had never held himself above others and that had endeared him to many. She had no doubt Anora loved the king in her own way, but the evidence found at Ostagar did not make the Mac Tirs look well. The correspondence found in the King's personal chest had certainly damned Loghain…What father would have stood for having his own daughter replaced with the ruler of his sworn enemy? There had been only a few trusted nobles who had been shown this particular evidence, which was just as well. She sighed, glancing towards Arl Bryland. He was looking impatient to have this over with.

"No…Anora," Alfstanna agreed. "Nor will I imply that you knew of your father's intentions to desert the King at Ostagar."

"I did what I thought was right for Ferelden," Anora insisted. "What was right for its people."

"Then I have every confidence you will do right by Ferelden and accept the decision of the Landsmeet."

"Even though Fergus Cousland is unknown?"

"I will vouch for TeyrnFergus." Eleanor Cousland stepped up, placing her hand on her son's shoulder.

Anora sighed. The Teyrna was one of her favourite people; one of the very few women in Anora's life that held her respect. With such a woman supporting Fergus…on the other hand, with such a woman supporting _her_…If Fergus married her, then…with a shock Anora realised that if she lost her title today, she would have nothing. The title of Teyrn belonged to her father. Her marriage to Cailan had been an add-in; another reward for the loyal general. Without the title of queen, she would only be – she shuddered delicately – _Ms _Mac Tir…it was a thought too horrible to dwell on.

"Let the Landsmeet decide!" Arl Bryland shouted suddenly, causing Anora to feel the ground had suddenly been whipped out from under her feet.

"Rainesfere supports Fergus Cousland as King!" Bann Teagan was the first to speak.

"Dragons Peak supports the Cousland as King!"

"Maker help us, South Reach supports the Cousland!" More voices declared their support for Fergus Cousland. Waking Sea…Greenfell…There were the odd detractors – Bann Esmerelle; a vocal supporter of Arl Howe and of course Bann Coerlic who had managed to not only to have escaped the fate of his estate, but from Loghain's order of beheading (owing to the fact that the former General, Teyrn and self-proclaimed Regent was not human…or alive). Arl Eamon abstained from voting in the end, but the final count of votes confirmed that a Cousland would take the throne over a Theirin…

All eyes turned to Alistair, almost forgotten in the argument between Anora and her childhood rival. Winking at Lady Alyssa, he crossed the few steps to kneel at the soon-to-be king's feet.

"The Grey Wardens of Ferelden pledge their support to King Fergus…" he slid a look of a thousand promises to Merran. "Such as we are…"

"And I will hold you to that," Fergus said, with only the smallest of grimaces. "I don't know whether it is in my power to grant you this title, but would you stand as Warden Commander and lead our armies to face the Blight, Alistair?"

In the act of standing, Alistair stilled, as the full impact of the Landsmeet decision penetrated one cell-layer further. _Warden Commander…_The words bounced around the inside of his skull, gathering little atoms of happiness. To be able to finish the work that Duncan had begun…to rebuild the Order in Ferelden as Duncan had intended…But hang on…who had been that other guy? The dark haired one with the accent? He looked over his shoulder, thinking he looked familiar…

"You were at my joining…" Alistair murmured. "It's Jader or is it Montsimmard…? I'm sorry, I can't remember…"

"My name is Riordan," the dark-haired man smiled. "Lately Senior Warden at Jader – and it is the First Warden that appoints the Warden Commander," he added kindly.

"Right," Fergus nodded. "I…sort of knew you were going to say something like that. But for the purposes of army-leading against the Blight…?"

Riordan spread his arms equably, "For the purposes of army-leading against the Blight, it would seem the practical thing to do. With this young lady," he placed his hand on Merran's shoulder affectionately, "as Acting Senior Warden."

"Ooh! A promotion! Does that mean I get a bigger office?"

"Something like that…" Fergus stepped towards Merran. Taking both her hands into his, he bent down and kissed them. "Thank you – my family owes you their lives. Again."

"I couldn't save your father though…" Merran began, her voice crackly.

"You have saved us all the same," Fergus insisted. "But…there is one more thing I _need _to ask…"

Alistair extracted Merran's hands – King or not, those hands belonged to _him,_ and he didn't feel much like sharing. Nor did he like the sound of this 'question' Fergus was about to ask her. Fergus leaned forward before he could stop him, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Er…there is the small matter of an _Archdemon…_" Fergus murmured to them both. "Seems to be causing all sorts of trouble in the country. Think you might be willing to take it on for us?"

Merran grinned. Alistair relaxed. Slightly. Holding up her hand, Merran attempted to hi-five the King. "No job too big or too small!" she exclaimed. "The Super Wardens are on the Job!"

-oo-


	31. Just Resting

Sorry this has taken so long. I've been agonising whether to post this so close to the big C, but hubby convinced me to anyway. People do get upset in this, but you'll be happy to know that no penguins were harmed in the writing of this chapter.

-oo-

**Chapter 31 – Just Resting**

Merran ran through the estate, skidding around corners and tearing down hallways. She'd started with the kitchens and the cellars and worked her way up through the guest levels, right through to the servants' quarters and the attics. By the time she'd reached the battlements, she was exhausted, startling a guardsman by lying down full-length on the cool stone while catching her breath.

"Miss…er, Warden?"

"Don't mind me – I'm just resting…" she puffed.

"Um…should I call someone?" the guard asked her nervously. "Can I get you anything?"

"A pillow?" Merran suggested. "Stone's kind of hard here."

"Well, it's supposed to be hard, Miss Warden," the guard told her. "Stone's like that."

"Thank you um…?"

"Warren, Miss Warden."

"Ser Warren…I'm glad you told me that. I will remember it the next time I decide to lie down on a stone walkway…" She closed her eyes. Realising the guardsman was still standing nervously over her, she opened them, squinting up at him. "So," she began again, "I guess a pillow really is out of the question?" She settled herself more comfortably on the stone floor, heedless of the guardsman's stuttered explanations about being on guard and not being able to leave his post to comply with her request.

_How do you find a shape-changing witch when she doesn't want to be found_? As Merran pondered this question and awaited a pillow – or even a small head cushion – she thought she saw a bird-shaped speck circling above.

Ah_-ha…_

-oo-

Riordan regarded the two men standing before him gravely. One was a Grey Warden, conscripted by the previous Ferelden Warden Commander, the other an un-Harrowed mage apprentice who had been conscripted by the current Acting Warden Commander; a Warden Commander who now wanted to rescind his conscription order. This was unusual. Riordan didn't even know whether a conscription _could _be rescinded. As far as he knew, the subject had never come up before.

"Look, I've seen darkspawn," the mage was arguing. "I know what they sound like, smell like. I'll be fine."

"You'll be dead, Jowan," Alistair said bluntly. "And Merran will _kill_ me."

"That's not my problem." Jowan folded his arms across his chest, prepared to weather the storm of Alistair's obstinacy. "That's yours."

"Yes it is," Alistair agreed. "Which is why I'm taking back my conscription order."

"You can't!" Jowan protested. "If you do then the Chantry will…"

"Damn, I forgot about that – well…" Alistair made a _ngnnn _noise, knocking his forehead with his fists as he paced.

Riordan put on his best Senior Warden face and stepped back into the argument. "Perhaps after the battle with the Archdemon?" he suggested, though he thought personally, that it was a stupid idea. He would rather have taken the risk with the mage's life and put him through the Joining than afterwards, when it might be too late. He was surprised none of the Wardens' companions had become infected by the Taint after all this time fighting darkspawn. If any of those travelling with the Grey Wardens wanted to undergo the Joining, he would be quite happy to facilitate that. No one had asked him, however.

Alistair stopped pacing. "Merran will still kill me if you die."

"For the Maker's sake!" Jowan exclaimed without thinking. "Merran might not even be around then!"

Silence stretched taut between the Mage Apprentice and Grey Warden. Jowan winced as the full impact of his insensitive outburst hit him. He had said it out of frustration than anything else – he knew how Merran felt about his joining the Grey Wardens; he didn't see it as her right to stop him - but he also knew bringing up her shortened life was beneath him. It should have been beneath him. Taking a half-step towards Alistair, he held his hand out in a placating gesture.

"Look, that was a stupid thing to say…I'm sorry, Alistair…" but the target of his comments was already backing away.

Resolutely turning his back on the both of them, Alistair paused at the doorway, hand resting on the handle. In a voice that told Jowan the subject was now closed for discussion, he said "No Joining."

Turning the handle, Alistair stepped through the doorway and was gone, leaving nothing but an awkward silence behind.

-oo-

The branch was slippery; and so had the trunk been. It had taken several attempts of sliding and falling before she had managed to climb high enough to reach the first branch. Then it was a matter of stretching up for the next and then the next, her efforts taking her higher up the tree. Telling herself not to look down, of course _made_ her look down, the yawning distance between herself and the ground causing her to scrabble desperately for a better hold, hugging the branch for dear life.

The wind blew, the tree swayed; Merran felt her life flash very briefly across her mind's eye because it was really quite a short life and hadn't had much in it, as lives go. She gripped the branch even more tightly, not caring that a twig was perilously close to impaling her ear. The logical voice in her head told her that she had lived in a very high Tower for the better part of her life and so heights should not be a problem for her. The other voice argued that stone was solid, did not move in the wind and unless the Templars unbricked the windows past the fifth floor, there was no chance of falling off, or out of it. Besides it was not so much being up high that bothered her, but hitting the ground like an overripe bit of fruit that did.

Meanwhile the raven she had been chasing observed her mockingly from the end of the branch. It cawed at her, which didn't help matters. Merran forced her eyes to open, managing only one. "Blessed Andraste," she muttered to the raven. "You're doing this on purpose aren't you?" Taking a breath, she tentatively reached out towards the raven, her hand crawling across the branch as she was not willing to actually let go.

"What in the name of all that is unholy…" a voice said way below, "are you doing in a _tree, _Merran?"

"Ehh…?" In her surprise, she let go.

Morrigan saw the red shimmer around Merran's body, forced to step forward to catch the small, flailing bird before it hit the ground. It was equal parts bluebird, finch, parrot and penguin, which accounted for its inability to fly. Mismatched wings spreadeagled in the witch's palm. It surprised Morrigan by _talking_.

"Andraste's smoking hairnet…! Remind me not to do that again."

The bird scrabbled to its feet, finding that folding one overlong wing wasn't working. It looked at Morrigan, saying in that disconcertingly high pitched voice: "Hey! I've been looking all over for you! Where've you been?"

For the first time in her life, Morrigan felt herself speechless. The entire reason a shapechanger was unable to converse with a human in animal form was simply because it _was _animal; vocal chords, mouth shape as well as the ability to 'talk' other than in the language of the chosen animal. The only human thing left was the mind. Merran being able to retain her ability to converse was _most unusual._

She also noted that of any species of bird Merran could choose, it kind of figured that they would all be _cheerful _ones…

"You appear to have found me, then," Morrigan murmured; releasing the bird as the red shimmer portended another shapeshift. She folded her arms across her chest, eyebrow raised at the results.

"Huh, what? Oh…damn!" Merran exclaimed, annoyed. "I can never get the clothes to come with me. How do you _do _that?" Morrigan shook her head in exasperation, frowning as Merran squeaked suddenly, darting behind the tree. She didn't need to turn to identify the owner of the clumsy footfall. Positioning herself next to the tree, Morrigan looked haughtily over at him.

"I thought I heard Merran." Alistair looked every where but at the tree, which to Morrigan, would have been the first place _she _would have looked. "Is she out here?"

"Clearly…not," Morrigan told him.

"Well, if you see her, can you tell her Riordan wants to speak to us?" He did that nervous gesture, poking his two fingers together – the man really did have unusually large hands…odd that she would notice that now. "Grey Warden business," he added.

Morrigan nodded, wishing him a quick departure before Merran froze to death behind the tree. So when he continued not to leave, she glared at him.

"So um…" he began again, looking as though this was going to take a while.

"Yes Alistair? You have something else on your mind?"

"I was hoping to be able to talk to you about…well, it's kind of…"

"Now is _not _a good time," she snapped impatiently.

"Right…right…" Thankfully he began backing away. "Later then? When we're finished with Riordan...?"

"Yes, yes. After you have finished," Morrigan assured him hurriedly, sure that she had heard a distressed whimper from the other side of the tree.

"So, you're sure? Later…?"

"_Go, Alistair_ before I hex your unmentionables into custard."

On that threat, which had sounded pathetic and ridiculous even to her own ears, he turned tail and ran, slipping slightly on the stone path. Morrigan rolled her eyes, just as a small, pathetic cry could be heard behind the tree. She found Merran pressed up against the trunk, shivering violently.

"You can move now," Morrigan suggested with a frown.

"Can't!" Merran whimpered. "I think I've frozen myself to the tree…"

-oo-

Morrigan had sent her back inside to put some clothes on. She was in no mood for arguments and so, for the second time that day Merran had failed to speak to Morrigan. Disheartened, she made her way to her room, desperately trying to think of a way to pin the woman down. She ignored the shocked stares of the estate's staff at her unexpected state of undress, the contrarian in her causing her to sit for several minutes contemplating the fireplace in her room instead of seeking out Riordan straight away. Finally, knowing she could not put the meeting off any longer, she left her room, wandering down the long corridors of the Cousland estate. She eventually found Alistair, standing nervously at the end of a hallway. The sight of him in full armour made her pause at the other end. Handsome as he looked in the shiny armour, she wondered whether she had missed something about the message – did she need to dress up too?

Not…that she had anything particularly fancy to wear; a cleaner shirt that had slightly fewer patches than the others, the pair of leather breeches that were too stiff to wear but were as new as they could get. At least she was clean – and thanks to Morrigan – defrosted. Thinking about whether she should return to her room to change, she hesitated just a bit too long. Alistair spotted her, his face lighting up at the sight of her.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he sighed nervously. "I was hoping not to have to attend the Grey Warden lecture on my own."

"Did Riordan say what he wanted to talk to us about?" she asked conversationally, hoping this wouldn't take long.

"No…" He looked as though he had been about to say more but changed his mind, opening the door and bowing her in. The both of them were surprised to see Fergus – King Fergus inside, although as it was technically _his _estate that they were staying at, they shouldn't have been.

He rose to greet the two Grey Wardens as they stepped into the room, embracing them both warmly. Although he had just been introduced to Alistair today, it seemed anyone who had survived Ostagar was a bosom friend. When he stood back, Merran couldn't help casting her mage eye over him for tiredness or a relapse of his injuries. It hadn't been too long ago since the man had been able to leave his sickbed, much less remain on his feet the entire day. Fergus however, chuckled good-naturedly at her concern.

"You know you're as bad as my mother," he told her over a waggling finger. "But I am glad to have this opportunity to speak to you both."

While Riordan hovered close by, the three sat down around the blazing fireplace, Merran wondering whether Alistair wore his armour because he knew the king would be present.

King Fergus leant forward, elbows on his knees.

"I wanted to speak to you about…Anora," he said, steepling his hands. "I offered her the Teyrn, which she turned down."

"Her father's Teyrn?" Alistair asked, awestruck. "What; was being a simple Teyrna not good enough for her?"

Fergus grimaced. "Actually, she proposed marriage to me – though it was hardly a romantic affair. She was very cold about it; no box of chocolate, no flowers. She wouldn't even take me out to dinner and a pantomime first."

"And are we to wish you felicitations?" Riordan asked, though he looked rather apprehensive at the possibility that the king would say 'yes'.

"No, thank the Maker," Fergus grimaced. "I may have hit my head in the Korcari Wilds but I'm not so brain-addled as that." He smiled at the collective sighs of relief, then his expression grew solemn. "Anora might have her own ideas about marriage – political or not - but I loved my wife…"

Abruptly, he stood. Covering the few paces to the fireplace, he leaned his arms against the mantelpiece, watching the flames dancing on the logs a long moment. "I have no plans in the future; immediate or otherwise to replace Oriana." When he turned, he had composed himself, attempting another smile, "No doubt my sister and Arl Roland will provide me with at least half a dozen heirs to choose from, so I need not worry."

"Arl?" Merran asked.

"It hasn't been announced," Fergus made a face, "so I would appreciate it if you kept this between the four of us. I've asked Ser Roland whether he will take over the Denerim Arling. With Arl Urien dead and his son missing…I need someone I can trust and Ser – _Arl _Roland; I have to start practising that one – has proved himself above and beyond the call of his duty to my family." He gave a short huff of laughter. "He was set to inherit his father's holding, but luckily for the Gilmores there are plenty of capable sons to replace him – and I would like to have _some_ family at least close by to the palace.

"Roland has a good heart and a fair hand. He's intelligent and he's charismatic – he'll look after the Alienage as it _should _be looked after, although…" He shook his head, throwing his hands in the air helplessly. "If I know Alyssa, no sooner will the two of them move into their new abode than she will be planning for the Alienage to be recognised as a Bann in its own right and campaigning for the Elves for the right to self-rule."

"And the former queen?" Alistair asked, curious as to Anora's fate.

Fergus sighed, reseating himself as though of all subjects, this one made him weariest.

"She will not accept anything less than being queen in her own right. The poor woman is clutching at straws, I know. Unfortunately because she refused to agree in writing that she would give up all and any claim to the throne, the Bannorn wished her disposed of – don't worry," he told them hastily, seeing the stricken look on Merran's face. "'Disposed of' as in 'exiled'. She's been sent to the most comfortable office we could find in Fort Drakon – under guard – until we've dealt with this Blight situation. You never know," he added sourly, "when we might need an experienced spare."

"And the information she had," Alistair asked him tentatively, though not without a little hope. "Where did that come from?"

"I am afraid it may have been my fault that information fell into Loghain's hands," Riordan replied, stepping forward. "When I was captured I had in my possession correspondence between Duncan and Weisshaupt – to a certain Warden there."

"You mean she…I, that is …My…my _mother_…wow, you mean to say that my _real _mother is still alive?" Alistair asked breathlessly. "She's really a Grey Warden? And a mage?" He turned to Merran, brimming with excitement and nerves. "We could be related! Well all right, I hope not, because that would really be creepy, considering, you know, you and me and...um all right…maybe I'll just shut up now…?"

No one replied straight away. When someone did provide an answer, it was the last person Alistair expected.

"We don't know for sure, Alistair." Merran gave his hand a squeeze. "The correspondence only mentions a 'son', and no one by name. More correspondence was found in the ruins of the army camp at Ostagar and here in Denerim. Most of the letters are in cipher which Riordan kindly decoded for us. From what we've read, you're about the right age but…" She shrugged. "For all we know the letters may be about someone else. Neither Redcliffe or the Chantry are mentioned."

The thought that he might not have escaped the burden of the crown after all made every nerve in Alistair's body twitch. "Then…I could still be…?"

"Yes. It is still possible," Fergus said wryly. "Unfortunately for us Anora has already planted the seeds of doubt about your legitimacy for the throne – no pun intended. Even if you are just simply the product of a liaison between the king and a _Fereldan _serving maid, it will be difficult to prove otherwise, owing to the fact that both parties involved are deceased – and Arl Eamon knows less than we'd like him to." He sighed, rubbing at his temples.

"Anora may have ruled this country by textbook, but she _did _know how the Bannorn would react to a possible half-Orlesian on the throne – I'll give her that. She was able to wrap every Ferelden fear into one neat little package and drop it in the middle of the Landsmeet to explode." He shook his head, marvelling at the gall of former queen. She had taken a great risk, but it had paid off, even if she did not win in the end.

"Maker help us if anyone ever finds out about the negotiations Cailan was making behind everyone's back with the Empress Celene…" Fergus cast his gaze briefly heavenward. He stood.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to attempt to sleep. Wake me up when the Archdemon arrives for tea and scones. I'll be mother and pour the tea..."

Riordan waited a few minutes after the new king had departed before speaking.

"It is about the Archdemon…" he addressed both young Grey Wardens. "that I wish to speak of…"

-oo-

_I am the oldest…it will be up to me to engage the dragon, but if I fail, then it will be up to one of you to take on the Archdemon…_"

How long the two of them stood unspeaking in the hallway, they did not know. Hearing _how _the Archdemon was to be defeated had been bad enough. Merran having one of her 'episodes' had been the icing, cherry and candles on the cake. To break the silence, Merran walked to the wall and began knocking her head gently against it. Alistair grabbed her braid, stopping her.

"The Archdemon is coming here?" he whispered the question. "Not Redcliffe?"

Merran half turned towards him. She wanted to say 'no', but the words still tumbled about in her head. _Northwards shall we rise…The Great One leads us to our destiny…_Did she really have to say it loud? The voice that had emerged from her had not even sounded like her own voice. It had not _felt_ like her own voice. But they had been issued by _her_ mouth. _I hate being a puppet of the darkspawn…_

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut, his back resting against the stone. Only a couple of braziers were alight along the high stone walls, casting an eerie light over the both of them forcing deep shadows in between.

"Merran," Alistair tentatively reached out for her hand, but something stopped him. She looked pale in the dim light; even paler than when he'd first met her, newly escaped from the Mage's Tower. Under the light of the hall torches her skin appeared translucent, the veins underneath tracing interesting lines across her temple and forehead, like Elven tattoos.

"I…" he began, finding it difficult gathering his thoughts into coherent speech.

Merran sighed. "You don't have to worry, Alistair," she told him, face turned to the wall. "You won't have to die tomorrow."

Red flashed briefly across Alistair's vision. "Nor will you," he spat. "I won't let you take the final blow."

Merran's head jerked upwards. "Don't be stupid," she said. "You have your entire life ahead of you. Why should you sacrifice it?"

"Why should I…!"

"Only thirty years, give or take – is that what you're going to remind me?" Merran berated the wall. "Trust me. Thirty years might not seem a lot to you, but it's better than…" _thirty days…or thirty hours…_"I would have thought my being the backup was fairly _obvious_." She snorted in self-mockery. "It's not like I have a lot of sand left in my hourglass, I might as well make the most of my death. Think of it – Warden-Mage Merran gloriously sacrificing her life to save us all – huzzah."

There was little warning except the hiss of an angry breath. Alistair seized her, spinning her around and forcing her back up against the wall.

"Stop!" he hissed at her. "Just _stop_." His waving fist slammed into the wall with such force, the stone chipped, shards of broken stone and grit scattering. Merran flinched at the fury in his face. She had seen him angry before – Redcliffe after Isolde's death for one, but that had been nothing like this raw, pure rage boiling off him like steam. She was suddenly aware of how large and physically powerful he was. The tower of rage standing above her now was not the junior Warden she had met all those months ago at Ostagar. He'd survived many battles; he'd learned to take charge of the people that relied on him and he was far, far more confident in his ability to snap a mere mage in half if he wanted to.

He smacked his other hand into the wall, but with the palm of his hand this time, the metal of his gauntlets ringing on the stone.

"I'm _tired_ of you talking about your death like it's a joke," he growled. He pounded the wall again with his fist. "I'm sick and _tired_ of you treating your life like it's...like it's no big deal. Like it's expendable – like it's _nothing…_Do you think no one gives a damn? That no one…that _I_ don't…" He stopped abruptly as his voice broke. He fell against her unable to say anything else. After a few moments, Merran realised with a shock that the rattling noise she could hear was coming from him. He was weeping; his body shaking with the effort of maintaining a relative silence.

Merran reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "It's not that I think you don't care…"

"I want you to live," Alistair struggled to speak. "Is it so wrong to want you to live…?" he asked, winding his own arms around her shoulders. He held her close, sobbing into her hair. "I want you to _live_…I know it's stupid and impractical and _stupid_ and I'm stupid…but I don't want to be without you. I want us to be _us _always_…_I know it can't be forever, but as _always _as we can possibly make it…" He kissed her hair, her ear, lips trailing down to the nape of her neck; imprinting his skin with the shape; the taste and the feel of her, finally meeting her lips with his own with such fire it felt like she was being burned from the inside out.

Cheeks damp with tears, he rested his forehead against hers.

"I…I want to live too," Merran admitted through cloudy, tear-filled eyes. "But I don't have a choice. The only way I know how to get through this is to make light of it. If I didn't, I'd go crazy…"

"You are already crazy," he said, pinning her with another kiss; but one that was slightly less desperate than the last. "You love me."

"Yeah," she agreed with a lopsided smile. "I do. That's got to be the nuttiest thing I've done to date. I really don't know how to top that…"

"So…marry me."

Merran blinked up at him a full minute, her mind a whirling blank, mouth slightly ajar. She expected him to laugh…any…moment…now...and tell her what a fantastic joke this was, but he remained looking serious and slightly pensive.

"M-m-mer…marr…Did you say…?"

"You love me. I love you," he stated matter-of-factly. "Marry me."

"What? _Now_?"

He seemed to think this over briefly. "Yes. Why not? There's no need to wait. We've already done the groundwork, there are no problems with in-laws and…ahem…we've already had the honeymoon…"

Unable to look at him any more, Merran dropped her head, hiding her face against the curve of his chestplate, unheedful of the buckets of moisture that flowed from her eyes. _Stupid, stupid Alistair…_she repeated in her head, hoping her tears would cause his armour to rust. If he started talking about white picket fences and what kind of animals to paint on the nursery walls; she was going to hex him.

"I think we should get a dog," Alistair said suddenly. "Well, I know you already have a _dog_. I meant a small furry one – and a cat. A fat tabby that spends all day sleeping in front of the mouse hole and looking offended if anyone suggests he actually catches a mouse."

Her head came up involuntarily, looking bewildered. "Alis…"

"I've always wanted a herb garden too," he ploughed on. "We can grow our own peas – for the traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew I make every Sunday."

She realised what he was trying to do. It wasn't going to work.

"Children just _love _my traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew."

"Alistair, this isn't…"

"Of course, you're not going to get away without contributing. _You_ get to make the seed dumplings. I like mine with cheese. I hope you remember that. Cheese. Dumplings. Very important."

She sighed. Resistance was absolutely useless. "Cheese. Dumplings," she repeated, glassy-eyed. "Right. Got it."

"Of course, it would also mean that we would go through an entire herd of lambs every year…" He made a face. "I wonder if we could substitute fish for lamb and pretend it was lamb. Or rabbit. Or cow."

Hooking one arm around her shoulders he began leading her back towards her room. "It's not like Junior's going to notice anyway."

Her head was spinning and she stumbled. "Junior?" she asked faintly, wondering how he'd managed to reverse their normal roles. Usually she did the bewildering while Alistair tried to keep up.

"Well, sure. Alistair Junior – I thought about naming him after Duncan, but I thought it might make a better name for a girl."

_Huh?_ "…Dunca…?" Merran wondered out loud, feeling the floor crumble away below her feet.

"Yes, that's it! Of course, it _does _sound like Cullen hacking up a furball, but I think one Junior in the family is enough, don't you? Oh, I suppose we could name her after one of our companions. Wynne, or Leliana or…"

"Morrigan…"

"Morrigan? Maker, _no._ That's the last name I'd…oh."

The door to her room was ajar. Inside, Morrigan uncurled herself from the footstool by the fireplace.

"You need not be startled," the witch smiled humourlessly. "It is only I."

Merran stepped into the room. "I've been wanting to speak to you."

"And I to you," Morrigan stated. Her golden eyes flicked briefly to Alistair, standing warily in the doorway like an oversized, metallic doorstop. "I…happened to overhear the conversation with the other Warden," she admitted, unashamed by her eavesdropping activities. "About how a Grey Warden must sacrifice their life to defeat the Archdemon. I have come to tell you that this need not be so."

"And I wanted to tell you to get the hell out of here, Morrigan," Merran told her bluntly.

Anger crawled across the witch's face. "I seek only to preserve what must be preserved!" Morrigan snapped.

"As do I," Merran sighed. She rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "If you value your life, Morrigan you should flee. Tonight."

"On the eve of battle?" Morrigan asked, incredulous.

Merran nodded. "As soon as possible," she explained, though it was hardly any explanation at all. "I received information," Merran added. "I…agreed to send a messenger to collect dragon scales from Flemeth in the Wilds. The messenger could not find the dragon's body."

Morrigan snorted in disbelief. "Perhaps animals…"

"Most animals, even blighted ones have a fear of dragons, Morrigan. You know that. Even if scavengers had attempted to strip the dragon's body, something should have remained, but there were no bones, no skin – and no animal tracks around the place where Flemeth had been fought."

Morrigan pursed her lips, looking annoyed at the news. "And from this," Morrigan sniffed, "you surmise…?"

"Your mother is still alive," Merran sighed. "She has cheated death and lived to inhabit a younger body. Perhaps she already has…For all we know," Merran added gravely, with a piercing look towards the young witch, "she could have already inhabited yours…"

-oo-


	32. A Conversation with the Archdemon

Author's quick warning: this chapter contains blood, dismemberments, death of characters and small choking parts, so read with caution.

It's also quite long, so you may want to go to the loo or make yourself a nice, bracing cuppa before you read this…

-oo-

**Chapter 32 – A Conversation with the Archdemon**

There were worse things to spend the last hours of one's life on before battle to face impending doom, overwhelming odds, a painful and possibly long-drawn out death and the complete disregard of your deader-than-dead body parts by darkspawn…than entwined in the arms of the woman one was completely and utterly and over the top in love with…in a very narrow bed that had been made for one average-sized person.

Alistair had been fine with that. He had learned to share from a young age and he was nothing if not a practical person; coming up with some very clever ideas for space-saving, even if explaining the broken bed ropes was going to take some extra hard thinking on his part…_We were unexpectedly surprised by a herd of stampeding Brontos…We were having an impromptu pillow fight with our golem…_Chuckling to himself Alistair rolled over by the fireplace, snuggling…into fur…_again…_

"_Cullen…!_"

An enquiring whine punctuated Alistair's impressively long string of swear words. When he'd run out of descriptive terms for the Prophet's small clothes, he moved on to animal parts in association with the Maker with such force and heat that would have made even - had he been present to hear Alistair swear at such an early hour of the morning – _Oghren_ blush.

"She's done it to me again!"

He sprang to his feet, taking the bed furs with him, wrapping them modestly around his middle. Cullen may have a boy's name and may be a Mabari, but she was still a female – and doggy snickering at one's exposed passion parts was not something he was prepared to put up with before he met his Maker on the end of the Archdemon's talon.

"Do you know where she's gone?" he asked the Mabari – who gave him the equivalent of a doggy shrug, twisting her head from side to side and whining helplessly. "Well, how long then?" Alistair persisted.

Cullen pawed the floor twice, causing Alistair's eyes to widen. "_That_ long ago?" he exclaimed in disbelief. "But that was almost straight after…I thought she'd gone to sleep!" _He_ had certainly needed sleep…Rubbing his eyes, Alistair sidled around the Mabari, clutching at the rug when he accidentally stepped on a corner, causing the rug to dip perilously low on his hips. Waggling his finger at Cullen he admonished her, "And you can turn around – no looking!"

He wasn't surprised. He shouldn't be surprised. But he had been _hoping_ that Merran would not leave him behind again. He couldn't let her fight the Archdemon on her own – he knew that she would try to do it before Riordan went to face it, to try and save the older Warden from sacrificing himself. It really was a race between who would meet their Calling first. Merran would never admit it, but she had a competitive streak in her that bypassed all her survival instincts. And her blasted common sense.

_Typical bloody Mage…_It really, really annoyed him. And it really, really _worried_ him. The thought that he might not get a chance to fight beside her for what might be the last time of their lives gouged a deep chunk out of the remains of his heart…but there was no use in sitting around here, either waiting for her to come back for him – which was highly unlikely - or feeling sorry for himself. The sooner he was up and ready to meet the horde, the better…

Except…It would take him twenty minutes to get into his armour and…He surveyed the room, realising that the previous night's activities had left bits of armour strewn about, instead of the ordered pile he usually left it in before retiring for the night. He would have to locate all the pieces first. He'd bent down, groping under the mattress for one of his greaves, when he heard the unmistakeable sound of canine snickering behind him. Turning around, he glared at Cullen, adjusting the furs back across his exposed butt cheek to have another go under the mattress.

Cullen made a show of observing the bedroom ceiling, but as soon as Alistair bent over again…_snrg, snrg, snrg, snrg…_

He would find _her._ And when he did…_snrg, snrg, snrg…_He would tell her that her dog needed remedial training…_snrg, snrg, sneech…_in the _Anderfels_…

_Snrg…snrg…_He was pretty sure they ate _dog _in the Anderfels…

-oo-

The sun had been cresting the city's skyline when Merran had cleared the main gates. She had spotted Riordan a little further ahead, scouting for a glimpse of the main horde. She knew he'd been following The Call, but when instead of south, he turned northwards, Merran became puzzled. Stepping off the road, she loped into the forest. When she thought she was deep enough amongst the trees, she sank her hands into the leaf litter and dirt, listening…

Nothing.

Had she been wrong? Had the message she'd conveyed last night been some kind of red herring? She didn't know darkspawn was even capable of something like that.

No – everything the horde did was instinctual. They were heading towards the most populous part of Ferelden. She was sure of it. Clambering to her feet, Merran felt the prickle at the base of her neck before she had time to turn or cast a spell. Something heavy sliced through her shoulder as the ground seemed to explode around her. She fell, the reek of rot and decay almost too much for her senses. She felt rather than heard the tinkle of breaking glass with horror, realising she'd landed on her store of lyrium.

Instead of finishing her with a killing blow, the Emissary that had struck her lowered his spiked staff, looming over her. He sniffed – Merran knew - at the very pure lyrium Bodahn Feddic had procured for her at enormous cost, now seeping wastefully through the seams of the leather pouch into the ground. There was nothing for it. Her left arm jerked, scooping a fistful of dirt and hurling it at the Emissary's helmet slits. It wasn't enough to blind him, but it was just barely enough to distract him. Concentrating, Merran muttered the ancient words Morrigan had taught her and _transformed_.

The wings were far too wide for the space, her body too long, but she was able to scoop up the pouch of lyrium – broken glass, soil and all – and gulp it down in one uncomfortable swallow. As the darkspawn hacked at her she twisted in the confined space…blasting some with a stream of blue ice, swatting others with her claws - and then she reached the Emissary. In a single leap she'd grabbed him and crushed him…

And then she ate him.

-oo-

Riordan had been sure that he was being been followed on the Pilgrim's Road. The feeling had been eerie; discomfiting, but when he'd turned, he'd seen nothing more than a few birds and a stray dog. He'd turned northwards then, cutting across open woodland back towards the crossroads. His intention was to circle around Denerim, but he'd no sooner reached the main highway again when the ground erupted at his feet. He drew his longsword, slicing a Genlock in half as it left the scabbard, the serrated scimitar he drew from his other side passing through the neck of another Genlock as they crowded around him and over him. Riordan's feet slithered across the dew-damp gravel, his arms whirling in deadly arcs, the metal of his blades barely visible except for the blood-stained blur in the air.

_Too many…_he thought, wondering briefly whether this would be his end – overcome by ordinary darkspawn before he had a chance to sight the Archdemon itself. Still he kept cutting; there was life in this old Warden yet…

He slid on bloodied ground, unable to stop his foot from sliding too far. He fell to one knee, longsword and dagger raised above his head. The large Hurlock raised its pike – and then its torso was flying one way, while the rest of it went the other.

Riordan sprang to his feet, realising he could understand some of the yelling around him: battle cries of dwarven berserkers. Plunging back into the fray, Riordan almost laughed – and then the darkspawn were…fleeing? No, they were turning towards Denerim. Riordan felt the unmistakeable tug on his mind of the Archdemon, calling him to follow. Tapping the side of his head with the hilt of his scimitar to clear it, he took quick stock of his allies.

"To Denerim!" he bellowed, his feet taking him back towards the city.

-oo-

Cullen had helpfully found the rest of the pieces. If Mabari had been bred with opposable thumbs, she would even have helped him put the armour together. Luckily for Mabari breeders throughout Ferelden, Alistair had done this so many times before, his fingers worked automatically and quickly, donning each piece in practised order. After tightening the buckles on his gauntlets, Alistair began strapping on his baldric, when there was an urgent knock on the door.

Without waiting for an answer, it sprang open, torn off its hinges by Shale.

"Oh dear…" she said with absolutely no contrition whatsoever. "Metal versus rock and rock wins again."

Realising he was standing with his mouth wide open, Alistair closed it with a snap, shrugging on the shoulder straps and adjusting the tension. His hand paused just the briefest of half seconds on the last buckle. When he looked up, his face was grim.

"The horde's been sighted" he stated.

"Oh, good guess!" Shale congratulated him. "A free holiday and a set of steak knives for the very perceptive Grey Warden."

Alistair ignored her sarcasm. "Where are the others?"

"Ready to go, Acting Warden Commander," Oghren curled his bushy head around Shale. "As soon as you're finished with your _toilette,_" he said. "Although, no one can find the poncy Mage or The Boss."

"Merran's out there already," Alistair told them, striding towards the door.

"And you aren't?" Shale wondered out loud.

"Well I washed my hair, and I couldn't do a _thing_ with it…" Alistair quipped, stepping out into the hallway just as King Fergus came jogging around the corner, still fastening the loops on his breastplate – as though he didn't actually have people _employed _to do that for him.

"The horde's been spotted," Fergus told him, the two men falling into step towards the main hall. "And so has the Archdemon."

"Ancestor's britches!" Oghren exploded behind them. "Bloody darkspawn can't keep a proper appointment! Told 'em it was the _day after tomorrow _they was expected."

"I hope they brought cake," came Sten's disembodied voice somewhere behind Shale.

Well, that was almost everyone, Alistair thought vaguely. "Where's Zevran and Leliana?" he asked. Two more voices piped up further down along the hallway. "And Jowan…? He's supposed to…" A door opened up ahead, Jowan half-staggering through the doorway. Alistair took one look at him and grabbed the other man by the collar of his shirt, twisting the material in his fist and lifting him off his feet.

"_You…_" Alistair said in tones of loathing…"You sneaky…"

Alistair glanced into the room behind him. There didn't appear to be anyone else inside.

"Alistair," King Fergus placed a hand on the younger man's arm. "This is hardly the time. The horde is upon us."

Heedless of the King's words, Alistair spat, "Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jowan said, looking the Grey Warden in the eye. "I just woke up – I heard voices and wondered what…"

"_Darkspawn voices?_" Alistair growled accusingly.

"Warden Commander!"

Alistair dropped the Mage; Jowan stumbling backwards, the wall preventing him from falling. "We'll talk about this _later,_" Alistair said in tones that promised a great deal of pain. "_If _you survive…"

"We must see if we can make it to the palace," Fergus suggested, though with little hope for that scheme. "I would have liked to have been able to position our armies a little better – I hope to the Maker our Captains haven't been caught too much off guard."

"The Dwarves were camped in the northern hills," Alistair recalled, "The Dalish in the forest…"

"And the Mage contingent had been placing wards and protections on the palace last night," Fergus added. "They should still be there, but if the horde itself…"

"Could appear anywhere," Alistair reminded him. "Especially where there is a cellar."

"Denerim's _all _cellar…!" Fergus exclaimed, thinking of the extensive tunnel system running from the ports along the Drakon River into the city itself. Many of the noble houses in the palace district had similar tunnels, along with Fort Drakon - and many of them intersected…"Maker's blood! The city could be overrun before we could even mount a reasonable defence!"

The party had entered the main hall, to the sounds of shouting outside. On the King's entry, a group of knights bearing the Cousland heraldry on their tabards immediately surrounded Fergus.

"And about time too…" Alistair muttered when the very walls of Cousland estate shook to a deep, menacing roar above.

Fergus looked speculatively up at the beams above their heads. "I see the guest of honour has just arrived…"

As though hearing him, there was another almighty roar. The massive hall doors opened, admitting a worried guardsman.

"Archdemon!" he yelled, rather unnecessarily.

"Yes, yes, man," King Fergus said soothingly. "Calm down. I think we heard…"

"Two of them!" the guardsman interrupted with a panicked cry. "There's _two _Archdemons!"

-oo-

Riordan and the Orzammar armies arrived at the main gates to an almighty roar above them. An enormous shadow passed overhead, circling the city. Armoured Ogres had already applied a battering ram to the entry to Denerim. As soon as one of the gates gave way, the horde spilled through – not that gates or walls around Denerim would have stopped them. Darkspawn were already scaling the walls like a swarm of dusty cockroaches. Everywhere the Archdemon spread its wings, the Taint went, creeping across the ground, rotting stone and woodwork on contact, fouling the air and turning everything it touched to decay. And a red-black pall hung over everything, as though the Taint had infected even the sun and the sky.

From above the Denerim gates came a lively cry before a storm of arrows were unleashed upon the darkspawn. A hundred fell, but in their place two hundred more rose up from the ground, shaking off the dirt and pouring into the city. Riordan raised his longsword, rallying the dwarves to another charge.

He and the dwarven army ploughed through the lines of darkspawn, while the elves continued to pick off the enemy on their flanks. They had carved a path through to the market district when there was a warning screech overhead. Riordan ducked instinctively as another dark shape soared over the battle.

"No…It can't be…" Slamming the hilt of his longsword into the skull of a nearby Hurlock, he stared in disbelief at the dragon overhead. With horror he realised this one was slightly different from the first. It was…smaller…and…he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but what was clear – there were _two _Archdemons! Cursing the powers that be that had prevented the Orlesian Grey Wardens from crossing the Ferelden border, Riordan merely shook his head once he had exhausted his store of epithets and moved onwards.

The dragon circled lower, seeming to search for something. Resigning himself to his role, Riordan sheathed his scimitar and wrapped both hands around the hilt of his longsword. He charged as the dragon attempted to land in the middle of the market district.

"Whoa! Woo, woo, woo, woo!"

It appeared that the dragon was _trying to run away…_The dwarves pursued it as it flapped around the market square, wings floundering. Then it saw an Ogre and swatted it aside, picking up an alpha Hurlock and snapping it in two. One of the dwarves attempted to hurl himself onto its back and it immediately began leaping about the square again, dwarves chasing after it, while the one on its back hung on for dear life, darkspawn trampled under razor sharp talons as it went.

Riordan stared. _There is definitely something wrong with what I am seeing…_

The dragon made a pass close by and Riordan could have sworn he heard it cry out: "Heeeeeelp!"

The dwarves' short legs were a disadvantage – the dragon was faster – but there was only one dragon and a hundred dwarves…all attempting to chase a dragon who did not want to be caught…well, _obviously. _But he was quite sure the pursuit of the Archdemon should _not _be a comedy moment…

As it made another pass by Riordan it vaulted over his head, landing roughly behind him.

"Riordan! Help!"

Riordan spun, eyes widening.

"_Merran…?_"

"Yes!" Dragon-Merran skipped to the side. "Tell them to stop!"

Riordan raised his hands; raising his voice to command the dwarves to cease their attack …It was fully ten minutes before the message got through. By then the darkspawn had moved on into the city, leaving behind only stragglers.

One of the dwarf generals stepped up as Riordan raised his hand tentatively towards the dragon towering over him.

"Oh, bleeding Maker's unmentionables…" the Merran-dragon breathed a sigh of relief. "I was thinking I was going to get hacked to pieces…" She leveled a glare at the dwarf that had lately attempted to ride her like a carnival pony. "That _hurt,_ you know."

"By the Ancestor's curling toenails!" the dwarf general exclaimed. "It talks! I've never heard of a Blight being won by _negotiating _with an Archdemon!"

"Heyy!" the Merran-Dragon protested. "Helloo! Not an Archdemon!"

"You look like one!" a beardless dwarf called out from behind a slightly larger, hairier one.

"I'm a Grey Warden, thanks!" the Merran-Dragon pointed a claw towards Riordan, "same as him." She swiveled her massive head to eye Riordan through an orb that looked uncannily and oddly human in the dragon's head. "I don't know how long I can stay in this form," she told him. "And I've had more lyrium than has ever been good for me…_and _some _bleeding nug-humper _shot my butt! So I'd appreciate it if someone could do me a favour and pull the damned thing out so I can get going and find the Archdemon and…" She rolled her eyes. "Um…tell it most politely to please die and go away…"

Riordan placed his hand on the dragon's muzzle. "Merran, can you carry me to the Archdemon? We can slay it together…"

The Merran-Dragon shook her head. "I can't Riordan – I might _look _like a dragon, I may have these very sharp claws and these wings, but I haven't mastered the art of all that weight to lift ratio…flying…stuff yet. I think if I think about this too hard, this spell is going to stop working and well, I…" There was a deeper, more rumbling roar in the distance. Riordan turned.

"That sounded close to the palace," he commented.

"Right." The Merran-Dragon spread her wings, hunching low. "Gotta go!" Like a coiled spring released, she launched herself into the air, gaining altitude rapidly. Behind her on the ground, Riordan gestured to the dwarf general.

"Send word out to your men and the elves – if you can find some runners willing to find our allies, all the better. Tell them the red dragon is _not _to be engaged, but is fighting on our side."

The dwarf general shook his head. "Eh, I'll try, but don't blame the sodding dusters if they don't believe us…"

-oo-

Alistair and the others emerged into the courtyard as the second dragon swept overhead.

"Maker's breath!" King Fergus exclaimed. "We have to fight two of those things?" He immediately set to a quick conference with his Captains, leaving the Warden companions speculating in growing anxiety.

Alistair felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked down to Wynne's enquiring face.

He nodded. "That was Merran…" he confirmed, voice not even a whisper. "Don't ask me how I know – I just do."

"She was heading towards the palace," Zevran said, eyes glued to the cityline.

Alistair began backing away. "And that's where I'll be going."

"Wait!" Leliana called out. "What about us?"

Alistair eyed his companions. They had started all this together, they should finish it together, but Riordan had been right – none of them had undergone the Joining. Against so many darkspawn the risk of becoming Tainted was just too high. He found a hand on his shoulder. Looking down he encountered Zevran's golden gaze; stern and resolute.

"If you are perhaps thinking to leave some of us behind, let me remind you that you have little power to stop us. We have all sworn our lives to ending this evil."

"Yes," Leliana chimed in. "Either we die today fighting darkspawn or we die later, er…fighting darkspawn..."

"See?" Zevran spread his hands wide. "Death is all around us. Is it not exhilarating?"

"Not to mention…_squishy…_" Shale giggled behind Wynne.

"Right then," Alistair said, pinning them all with a resigned gaze. "Whoever can keep up…you're with me" Turning to Fergus, Alistair quickly informed the king of their intentions. King Fergus nodded in understanding.

"I'll…just try and secure the rest of the city then, shall I?"

"Your Majesty…" Alistair began guiltily – King Fergus held up his hand.

"Do not say any more, Warden Commander. Your task has always been to defeat the Archdemon. While it lives, Ferelden is lost. We will try and buy you as much time as we can. Just…don't take _too _long, all right? I'm looking forward to a spot of tea and a bit of a granny nap later on. Pull this off and I'll name a _cheese _after you."

Despite the grimness of the situation and the urgency with which the party had to leave, Alistair grinned. "Do I need any more incentive than that?" he asked, his eyes drawn inexorably towards the palace and Fort Drakon beyond. _Merran…I'm coming, love…_"Actually, not really," Alistair informed him. "But I'll hold you to it!"

Running full tilt at the Cousland estate exit, Alistair bellowed. "For the Grey Wardens! For Ferelden!"

-oo-

Flying…was exhausting…Merran had spent weeks observing birds of prey – watching Morrigan in hawk form as she used the changing winds and rising thermals to spare her wings – but a fully grown dragon was much bigger than a hawk and the Archdemon had had a great deal more practice being a dragon than she. All in all, she had…ooh, almost half an hour of being a dragon. _Boy..won't Morrigan be surprised, if she saw me.._.Not that she expected Morrigan to be anywhere near. Or at least, she hoped not. She could feel her magic falter as she concentrated on scanning the city for the Archdemon. She could hear it in her head, screeching at her, but it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

She flew to the top of Fort Drakon, alighting on the remains of a catapault. She ignored the panicked cries of the soldiers manning the other Ballistas, scanning the sky. She closed her eyes, then closed them again.

_Where are you?_

_You promised me…_

_And so I had…let it end. Let me return you to the peace you so crave…_

The air shuddered to the sound of massive, beating wings. Merran-Dragon opened both eyes as the Archdemon roared, spouting white flame across the battlements. Screams of agony accompanied a mechanical whir as the springs of a ballista were first wound and then released. The bolt flew at the Archdemon - which was batted aside like nothing more than a harmless butterfly. Merran-Dragon launched herself into the air, exhaling streams of ice, surrounding the Archdemon in a growing tower of ice and snow.

She landed nearby, turning briefly to scream at the remaining soldiers, "Stand back! Clear the tower!"

The ice tower cracked, then crumbled altogether, as the Archdemon exploded from within. Talons raked across her neck, biting deep. Globs of dragon blood rained upon the stones, even as Merran-Dragon launched herself again at the Archdemon, jaws clamping around a wing. Teeth ripped, membrane tore, bones snapped. Claws flailed, catching scaled flesh and she hung on, while the Archdemon breathed deadly, sulfurous flame. Pain seared through her neck and torso, but Merran-Dragon refused to relinquish her hold, the two dragons tumbling across the stone, almost indistinguishable from one another.

The doors to the battlements exploded outwards, releasing darkspawn. They began attacking the few soldiers left. Merran-Dragon sprang to the soldiers' aid, freezing darkspawn and shattering them with angry claws. And then the Archdemon was suddenly upon her, gouging chunks of flesh and scale from her shoulders. Merran-Dragon turned, just as a flash of silver leapt between herself and the darkspawn, launching himself at the Archdemon, longsword gleaming in the tainted sunlight.

Alistair carved through the Archdemon's other wing, ducking under snapping jaws. He sliced through the dragon's underside, uncaring of the torrent of blood spraying into his eyes. Great talons grasped him, hurling him across the battlements. He could feel Wynne's protective spell softening his fall, healing spells knitting flesh and bone. Shale rampaged about them, giggling in glee, impervious to darkspawn weapons and Archdemon flame; Zevran in her wake, spinning in golden, deadly circles, protected by her stony bulk. Alistair couldn't see any others, wondering only briefly if they'd made it this high; his eyes finally alighting on the crumpled heap of bloodied scale and wing that was Merran.

Picking himself up, he staggered to her side, while the Archdemon floundered under the onslaught of Wynne's ice spells and Shale's unrelenting pounding.

At his approach, she raised her head, watching him with eyes he knew were hers.

"Look at you…" he said, "You're all…" he faltered, unable to speak the words.

"Broken?" she tried to laugh, but it came out a sad, husky gurgle. Blood poured from her wounds as she attempted to rise. Alistair could see bone underneath; flesh ripped from her frame in jagged chunks. He tried to stop her, tried to tell her to rest, to regain her strength, to use her Maker-given magic to heal herself, but the Templar in him knew all the magic she had left was sustaining this unnatural form – and in the back of his mind he knew if she was human, these injuries would be too much for a human form to bear.

She was dying.

Reaching out to touch her, he could feel skin under his hands; as though they were not scale and dragon leather; as though he wore no gauntlet and glove. Warm, soft skin, smelling of sunshine and fresh baked cookies – not blood and death.

"Let me end this…" he tried. She shook her head – imperceptibly, pressing her muzzle against his chest plate.

"You can't, Alistair." _I made a promise, a promise to end this myself…_

"You're crazy," he whispered.

"Completely," she agreed. "I love _you,_ after all."

"And I love you," Alistair told her, his heart in his eyes. "Always…"

Time seemed to slow. The Merran-Dragon gathered the last of her strength and her magic and…rose…In place of her severed wings were ice crystals, glittering silver blue. Instead of torn flesh, there were diamond shards, flashing white-brilliant. Her eyes burned black as coal as she sped in the slow light towards the Archdemon, jaws seizing the dragon's neck, biting down with all the force she could muster. Claws shredded the remains of her torso, yet passing harmlessly through her sparkling wings. Merran could feel the Archdemon's neck give way within her jaws. She jerked her head sideways, separating flesh and bone. Blood spurted, burning - and then she could feel it…the smallest spark of warmth within the Archdemon, struggling faintly for release.

Spitting out the Archdemon's severed head onto the stone floor, Merran turned just in time as the soul of the Old God was finally released. Wrapping her conjured wings protectively around Alistair, she felt the jerk of separation as her soul was torn from her physical body. They were surrounded by blinding, white light in a rapidly increasing shockwave that roiled across the tower battlements, exploding outwards. Merran _became _the light, passing first over the city, then the surrounding fields, fading to nothing more than a whisper until she too, was nothing.

On the ground at the palace gates, surrounded by dwarves and elves and other humans, Riordan saw the orb of expanding light, then the darkspawn - now leaderless - flee the battle. The cheers, at first tentative, grew in volume and confidence as the horde dispersed, pursued by determined soldiers.

He rested his hand over his heart, listening…The spark that he knew had been Merran had gone and the one that was Alistair was wavering dangerously close to disappearing as well. Breathing hard, he began his way through the palace grounds to Fort Drakon, thinking; _at least I can try to save one of them…_

-oo-

The smell had not been completely eradicated from the Tower. It was hardly surprising, given the number of dead bodies and the amount of rotting flesh left behind to stew and soak into the mortar after Uldred's scouring of the Mage's Tower. Even the Tranquil had complained that the task had been 'unpleasant'.

In the days after Uldred had been defeated and Wynne had been bundled off on her adventure, Irving had wandered aimlessly around his room like a bluebottle on a window; buzzing about with no real sense or purpose. The list of the deceased weighed heavily on his conscience and on his heart and he felt old; so very, very old. The years had piled upon his shoulders in layers too many to count. While he could not identify every body that had been placed upon the funeral pyres, he could trace the lives of every mage on that dreaded list.

And he was about to add one more.

His hand shook, his vision swam as quill met parchment. They had all been more than mere mages and fellow Tower inmates. They had been his family; his children in a sense. He had guided them as best he could and while there were days when it felt as though the failures outnumbered the successes, he would remember them all.

His hand moved over the parchment quickly. There were no flourishes, no embellishments, as the two words did not need them…_Merran Amell._

Passing a hand over his eyes, the First Enchanter replaced the quill into its small carved stand and threw sand over the ink to dry. Knocking off the excess, Irving stared unblinkingly at the list before him – thinking how unnecessarily long it was.

A knock sounded on the door. With a sigh, Irving pushed the paper aside and half stood. "Enter, Greagoir…"

The Knight Commander's gauntleted hand appeared first, followed by his iron-grey head. In the centre of his palm was a small wrapped parcel which he held suspiciously, as though expecting it to turn into something poisonous and bite him at any moment.

"This arrived on my desk, Irving," Greagoir grunted at him. "By _magic…_Did _you _have anything to do with it?"

Irving raised his eyebrows at the Knight Commander. "It appeared on your desk while you were looking?" he asked. "Or when you weren't looking?"

"What does it matter?" Greagoir snapped. "I may have turned my back for the barest instant – it's been cleansed of any spells, as a matter of _procedure_ of course, but I'd like you to have a look at it all the same."

Irving's eyebrows rose minor fractions higher. "_Me?" _Irving queried. "You would like help from me? _Magical_ help?"

"Yes, yes," Greagoir snapped impatiently. "Just get on with it."

"Well…since you ask so nicely…" Irving held out his hand. Greagoir dropped the parcel into it. There was nothing wrong with it; Irving could tell that straight away – someone as experienced as the Knight Commander would have been able to tell as well, but something about this seemingly innocuous parcel bothered his Templar colleague.

He made a show of examining the cloth, muttering incoherently over it. He passed it back to the Knight Commander with a confident smile. "It appears no more dangerous than one of Mrs Murtlock's tatty scones. You have nothing to fear, Knight Commander…"

"I was merely being cautious, Irving," Greagoir shot back, offended that his courage had been called into question – and by a mage. "You don't need to go overboard."

He gave the string a tug, peeling away the cloth wrapping. Both men fell silent as the object was revealed, Greagoir managing a soft, "I see…" after a few moments. The Knight Commander allowed himself a slightly more deeper breath than usual, his fingers closing over the carved toy horse in his palm, holding it to his chest plate. It had been carved out of the bits of a broken, wooden practice sword, he recalled. By a youngish senior Templar who'd been assigned to a small girl newly arrived to the tower. A tiny thing that everyone thought was an Elven child until one of the servants had cut her hair to reveal perfectly human ears. The memory of a small pale face looking up at him with overlarge, eager brown eyes too-large for that face swam briefly in Greagoir's mind.

"Thank you Irving," Greagoir said softly. "I…had not expected this to be returned to me…" and with that he turned and left, the door barely making a sound as it closed behind the elderly Templar.

Irving sat several long moments after the Knight Commander had gone, tapping his fingers on the wood of his desk. After a while he sighed and spoke to the air in general, "I know it was you. You need not hide any longer, my friend…"

There was a fluttery sound, like the pages of a book being fanned. From the corner of his eye, Irving detected the barest movement. He turned as two tiny hands gripped the edge of his desk, followed by a cloth-covered rectangle. Sheepish eyes regarded him shyly before the copy of _The Adventures of Roland the Cat_ heaved itself onto his desk. It settled on a pile of books, hands folding primly on its knees – a gesture that reminded him oddly of Senior Enchanter Wynne.

Irving shook his head in wonder and admiration. As magic and enchantments went, a walking, _thinking_ children's picture book should not have been possible. Giving life to an inanimate object should not have been possible, but Irving could detect no dark magic in _Roland. _And yet, Amell had been able to do it nevertheless – and it had stuck.

_Explaining this to Greagoir is going to be impossible…_he thought. Reaching out, he patted _Roland _on its…head; cover…whatever it was.

_Roland _whimpered softly, swiping a fist across its cover. "Yes. I miss her too…" Irving told it soothingly, as _Roland _butted an edge against the inside of his hand like a very pleased cat, that fluttery, papery sound emerging from wherever it was emerging from like a purr. "However, it would be advisable to continue to stay away from the Knight Commander and his Templars, hm?" Irving knew already that would not be a problem. _The Adventures of Roland the Cat _after all _was _a book that did not stay borrowed for long and was well-practised in the art of being innocuous.

It was…_most interesting…_

-oo-

_You know__…as departures go, that one was pretty spectacular…even if it did hurt like…well I'm not going to say _that _word. I was brought up too well._

_And I have you to thank._

_Well…I try to keep my promises, even if…_

_The other one? The one who burns bright – even in the darkness?_

_He isn't…he isn't alone…He'll never be alone…_

_But not with you._

_No. Not with me. _

_Then you regret…?_

_NO! You are free now. Free of them. Free to be as you should be._

_And you?_

_I don't know…_

_Then…do please, have another cup of tea. I'm told these petit fours are all the rage in Orlais._

There was a soft movement in the fabric of the Fade. A kind of sad resignation. A sigh, perhaps.

_I'll have mine with lemon then…but you can __be mother and pour._

_Very well…lemon it is…_

-oo-

A/N…Phew! Well, this went on a bit longer than I expected, but it was fun – even the very difficult bits - and Merran has been good company, despite the threat of impending froghood at times. A really, really big thank you to all of you who have accompanied me through Merran's journey. This story was originally about a 30-something office worker who finds herself transported to Ferelden by her magical dog (yep…you can see _that _idea went quickly out of the window). I'm sooo glad I didn't end up darning Alistair's shirts in that one…

Special thanks to all of you who have sent through comments and encouragement; _Jormund Elver, The Golden Echo, FoxyHottie, Of-Light-and-Shadow, Enaid Aderyn, Shikyo-sama, minaseiko1, MelindaOz, Inverness, Sunnydale-High-Class-of-98, Akane-Yamabuki, Katrina-Irene, Catastros, Belladoni, Dark and Chaotic, HM-SC, Elizabeth-chan, Aline1, blah_, _roxfox1962 and Gamine_ – your reviews have kept me trying my best to keep entertaining you, if only for the teeny, tiny, littlest bit.

There is an epilogue…written and proofed, but…maybe when Alistair feels a bit better (I've been working him pretty hard in this – it's all those gleaming muscles, dripping with sweat – that I couldn't resist).

In the meantime, take care everyone!

_Champion The Wonder Snail_


	33. Epilogue  Life After Death

This chapter had originally been the epilogue, and then it was the first chapter to something else and then I changed my fickle mind and it became the epilogue again to tie up some loose ends. I figured I'd try and end this and then retire to someplace warm…except I already do live someplace warm. Well, at least where there'll be no smell of damp dog and the chance of two-day old Ferelden Lamb and Pea Stew…

Anyway folks, thanks again for bearing with me thus far. You've been great company! I hope you enjoy the final, final, final chapter in Merran's story.

-oo-

**Epilogue – Life After Death**

Riordan knelt by the great bulk – or at least, the _main_ bulk – of the dragon. The remains of the Archdemons were strewn about the surface of the tower in a jumbled, draconic jigsaw. By the amount and shape of _this _particular bit, this was probably the torso…Then he spotted a yellowish object that appeared at first to be a large curved rock. Working it loose of the surrounding, clotted flesh with the tip of his scimitar, he revealed it as a claw. He looked back at the mighty heap of beast speculatively. _Perhaps a haunch then?_ Whatever part it was, the smell was the same: unbelievably, hideously, nose-searingly _awful -_ and that in comparison to the individual standing nearby.

"Wonder what these things taste like?"

A dull metallic thud. _Scritch, scritch, scritch…burrrrrrpp!_

The malodorous stench of stale ale and spirits wafted over Riordan, straining his olfactory tolerances further. The claw he tossed to the dwarf – Oghren – who caught it and sniffed at it while Riordan continued to work at the scales with his scimitar, working around the base of the scales to get them free so he could carve into the flesh underneath. The trader the young Wardens had been travelling with had offered to strip the beast of its scales later – dragonscale was at a premium and the Wardens would have their share of the profit.

The blood of the Archdemon however, needed to be collected first.

"Ya know, there's nuthin' like a good spit roast," Oghren said conversationally, giving the claw an experimental gnaw.

Riordan did his best to ignore the dwarf. Collecting the blood was quite a task. While there had been a lot of Archdemon on the top of Fort Drakon, Riordan had had to work fast. The alternative was to have all the bricks taken up and squeezed of blood – a labour intensive idea, and not a practical one.

"Spit roast and a tankard of ale – make that a barrel – considerin' there's a _lot _of spit roastin' to do up here." Behind the Grey Warden, Oghren counted the heaps of Archdemon, leather-clad finger sketching a tally in the air, calculating under his breath, the dimensions of the open-air rotisserie required for the task.

Riordan almost turned. With sheer force of will, he maintained focus on his own task. Weisshaupt would not be displeased with the amount he _had _been able to collect. There would even be more than enough to boost the numbers of Grey Wardens here in Ferelden.

"Bit of hot sauce – always gotta have hot sauce with Archdemon – take the taste of the Taint out, I s'pose."

Riordan stoppered the small flask and placed it in the crate with the others. He stood, surveying the carnage – the piles of fly-blown, rotting flesh; bodies barely recognisable in their fast-decaying, bloated states - and then at the remains of the Archdemon itself. It was hardly an appetising sight. He squinted at the dwarf; leaning nearby on the handle of his massive battleaxe.

"You would _eat _the Archdemon?" Riordan asked.

Oghren shrugged. "Well…all this meat…seems to me a waste to let it go to maggot and carrion…"

Riordan looked down at the remains of the Archdemon. He supposed that for a Grey Warden, it would probably be safe…_What am I thinking!_ He gave his head a shake, dislodging the stupid thoughts that crept into his sleep-fogged mind. _This is madness…!_ And yet, he could see Oghren's point. There was an awful lot of dragon up here…but only enough to make up _one _of them.

He could find no trace of young Warden Merran. If she had managed to transform into her human form, this body had not been found either. As for the Archdemon, it would have to be disposed of in the same way that the corpses of darkspawn would be disposed of – by fire.

It would be a roast, just not as the Dwarf imagined.

"The taint in the dragon's flesh would kill you," Riordan reminded himself as well as Oghren, banishing the vision of the Victorious feasting on the Archdemon's body on the top of Fort Drakon _alfresco_ from his rebellious mind.

"Ah…what's a bit of dangerous gastronomic adventurin' now and again?" Oghren mused. "Once ate a two-week old stew the pike-twirler made – we kept adding to it every evenin', to see whether it would taste the same as when we started out, heh heh. I swear it turned my insides green. Spent the rest of the next day with me arse glued to the bog and a bucket under me beard. Stew comin' out both ends and woo hoo! Did it ever, sodding _burn_!"

Riordan glared at the chuckling dwarf, wondering why, of all of the Warden companions, he had chosen this one to accompany him to the top of the Fort. Probably because of all of them, none of the others had been willing to face the place where their companion had died…gone…disappeared…Not yet at any rate.

He grimaced. "Thank you for sharing."

"Always a pleasure." _BURRRRPP! _

Riordan winced. The next few weeks were going to be…busy.

-oo-

"So…this is where you've been hiding…"

Jowan stood at the doorway, looking around the sparsely furnished room. It was small by anyone's standard - and that coming from someone who had spent most of his life in a crowded dormitory, where one needed to crawl over the person next to you if you wanted to reach a notebook or a spare quill. There was a narrow cot pushed up against a tallow-stained wall. A battered chest served as storage as well as a bedside table. The only feature worth remarking upon was the window, showing an impressive view of the city of Denerim. Battered, crumbled and crushed as the city was; it was still an impressive sight.

Antlike, the people of Denerim continued to clear away the rubble industriously, salvaging what they could, removing the bodies…the skeletons of scaffolding replacing solid walls until the flesh of the buildings - stone and mortar - could be grown back, brick by brick.

And yet…despite the damage to the rest of the city and the palace itself, the Grey Warden compound in Denerim had been relatively untouched, as if the darkspawn had to draw the line somewhere. The rundown, dusty and dishevelled two-story stone building had once been the original soldiers' barracks, converted into living quarters for the Ferelden Grey Wardens. It was clear no expense had been spared to outfit the building with the best second-hand, recycled, hand-me-down fittings that Denerim had just…you know; lying around, doing nothing much but gather dust…might as well give it to the Grey Wardens – they don't mind a bit of falling apart…These days, the building lay slightly slumped to the side of the shiny, _real _soldiers' quarters, as though slightly embarrassed to be caught outside dressed inappropriately in stained sleepwear with curlers in its hair.

Alistair had been tracked here, after the battle with the Archdemon – once Cullen had identified the young Grey Warden's trail of blood as his own and not some random soldier that had dragged his bleeding body from the top of Fort Drakon. He had been close to death and reluctant to be brought back from the brink of it, almost draining Wynne of the last of her own life force to do so.

Alistair had returned, but he had come back…slightly _changed._ He spoke little and when he did, it was…odd conversation. No one really knew how to talk with him – those who hadn't travelled with him for one and a half years preferred not to talk to him at all, labelling him _eccentric _if they were kind and _insane _if they were not. He spent most of his time in this building, contemplating Alistair-thoughts that needed to be contemplated.

As Alistair had shown no sign he knew he had company, Jowan crossed the two steps across the room to join him at the window, trying not to feel nervous around the other Grey Warden.

After a few empty minutes had fallen between them Jowan began, "Leliana said 'goodbye'." He looked at Alistair. It seemed the words had not registered. "She said she wanted to try and beat Brother Genitivi's team to the Temple of Andraste," he continued. "Mentioned something about it being turned into a 'theme park'…whatever that is…" his voice trailed away as he realised Alistair wasn't looking out of the window; his attention fixed instead on a long, cloth-wrapped object, held reverently in his gloved hands. Clearly, it had significance for him, though Jowan was reluctant to ask the question as to what, why and how.

"I asked her to marry me'" Alistair said suddenly, making Jowan jump slightly.

Recovering, Jowan pondered the statement, frowning. "Mages don't get ma…" he began, snapping his mouth shut on the rest of his sentence. Given Alistair's unpredictable behaviour, it was probably best not to remind him that the Chantry frowned upon Mages living like _normal _people – and he wasn't one to talk, considering the circumstances under which _he _had come to leave the Tower of Magi. Wracking his mind for something else to say, he managed to locate one memory: "She asked you first, didn't she? Up in the Frostbacks?"

Alistair flicked him a bewildered look. "What?"

"Nothing. Nothing," Jowan sighed inwardly. His eyes inevitably drifted down to the package and curiosity finally got the better of him. "So…what is that?"

"I meant to give it to her."

"And…what is it?" Jowan persisted patiently.

"I told her it reminded me of her."

"Mm." Jowan gritted his teeth. This was what it was like, talking with Alistair – a person would start a topic of conversation and the Grey Warden would take it, make it his own, then shift it somewhere to the other side of the planet. Jowan _thought _he was getting used to it. As long as he remembered it worked out better if he just talked to himself, supplying all the answers he wanted to hear, until Alistair returned from wherever he had gone with the original topic.

"I got a ring," Jowan told him, watching the almost-Templar with borderline patience. "Apparently it will track my movements all over Ferelden."

"It was the first thing she'd enchanted for me."

"Just a simple ring. Silver, most likely. A bit cheap – made my skin turn purple the first time I wore it."

"I was going to give it to…well it doesn't matter, I suppose."

"Had to see Wynne about it – she asked all sorts of _embarrassing _questions. Apparently she had seen 'purple finger' before…" Jowan shook his head at the memory as Alistair continued.

"I found it in Lothering. Famous place; Lothering. Famous for its roses and Qunari warriors in cages."

"And then she wanted to confiscate it so she could send it to the Circle of Magi to study it." Jowan took a deep breath, wondering vaguely which one of them would break first.

"I remember when I picked it. It was an early summer day – partially cloudy, with a chance of showers later."

"I told her she'd have to _remove _it first because the bloody thing was stuck fast. Not even a bit of duck grease could shift it."

"That was Lothering for you – grey one day, darkspawn tainted the next."

"She suggested sending _my hand _to the mages."

"Still, I never regretted the rose – or Sten."

"So I told her purple was my colour and I didn't mind actually. She followed me around camp pestering me, telling me it would probably fester and fall off anyway."

"I never gave it to her. I wonder why?"

The mention of Lothering finally caught up with Jowan's ears. "Wait," his frown deepened. "You found a _rose _in Lothering?" He readjusted his own verbal dribbling. "I thought Lothering only did chickens. Chickens and Chasind." Jowan's eyes were drawn once more to the object in Alistair's hand – the Grey Warden was slowly, carefully, peeling the wrapping away.

It was revealed to be – indeed – a rose. Jowan stared at the object, the skin on the back of his neck prickling eerily. It was still a bud, blood red and perfectly formed…and yet Lothering had been a long time before Redcliffe and the walking dead, before Jowan had been rescued from a cramped cell and conscripted by the man standing next to him. Jowan tore his gaze from the perfect rose to settle on Alistair, thoughts tumbling over themselves in his head, eager to leave it.

"Merran enchanted this?" he heard his voice hoarse and unsteady.

"Preservation spell," Alistair said simply. "She told me to wrap it up securely and not sit on it. Except that I did sit on it once, but it came through okay…or was it Shale? I can't recall exactly…"

The rose should have been a dried up, decayed thing. The Mage that had enchanted it was _dead._ Her enchantment should have died with her...Jowan's first impulse was to seize the flower from Alistair's hands, but he stopped himself. _There had been no body…_he reminded himself. There had been nothing to burn, bury or entomb – a head, a nose…a little finger. There had been nothing to mourn, nothing to weep over; nothing to parade in front of the cheering thousands. At the time the lack of…anything had not seemed surprising. Anyone – or anything close enough to the dying Archdemon had been nearly obliterated when the thing had exploded so spectacularly. Alistair had barely made it back alive…and according to Riordan, there had only been the remains of _one_ dragon atop Fort Drakon.

_Impossible_, his mind told him. It should be impossible…yet the logical part of him told him the evidence was right in front of his eyes. The rose, like the mage that had enchanted it should be dead.

But it wasn't.

"The rose…!" the words burst out of Jowan's mouth in an incoherent dribble. "Dead…unless living she…everything…wrong! No, start over…enchantment by the mage that was…I mean…_poop_" was all Jowan could manage.

"I feel like some shaved ice," Alistair said suddenly. "The dwarves have a machine set up in the market district that freezes water and then turns it into flavoured shavings. I wonder if they have blue cheese flavour?"

Jowan reeled visibly from the abrupt change in conversation, feeling an urge to smack his head on the wall – or failing that, smack the wall with Alistair. Or both. Yes. Both would be good.

"Lemon," Alistair added hopefully. "Lemon would be good too." His eyes brightened suddenly. "Or mince pie. Ooh…_mince pie…_"

"Listen to me Templar freak!" Jowan grabbed a hold of Alistair by the pauldrons, attempting to swing him around to face him – and failing completely to cause the stronger, heavier Grey Warden to even wobble a bit. He hoped the old, disused nickname could crowbar into Alistair's head; to find some kind of purchase into the more saner reaches of the Grey Warden's mind. "Do you know what this _means_?"

Alistair turned to Jowan, looking rather hurt, bottom lip protruding. "No mince pie?"

"When mages die, so does their magic!" Jowan shouted, arms waving frantically – the announcement for his own benefit as well as Alistair's. "If Merran enchanted this rose – it should have returned to its natural age when Merran died. Do you _understand me…?_" In his desperation to make the other Grey Warden understand, Jowan went with his first instinct and grabbed the rose from Alistair's hand.

"Heyy! Give it back! That's mine!"

"Merran's still alive!" Jowan yelled at him. "If she wasn't, then the enchantment on this rose would be gone!" As doubt and bewilderment lingered in the other man's eyes, Jowan waved his fists in frustration. "As long as this rose remains alive, so does Merran. I don't know how – I certainly don't know _where…_I just know that she _is…_"

Alistair looked from the rose to Jowan, his brows knitting scarves across his frown-carved forehead.

"You're a blood mage," Alistair muttered darkly.

Jowan groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "And you're a bloody idiot!" he snapped. "If I thought the woman I loved could be alive somewhere and I could be with her somehow, then I would damn well find a way to be with her!"

"So why didn't you?" Alistair asked, deceptively quiet.

"What?"

"Why didn't you go after Morrigan?"

Baffled by the turn in conversation, Jowan could only shake his head in bewilderment. "That's none of your…"

"What?" Alistair's eyes narrowed accusingly. "Was doing the dirty, dark ritual, demon-baby-making thing just another way of having breakup sex?"

Jowan's head snapped back as though he'd been struck, the unexpected depth of clarity in the other man's eyes terrifying. "How did you…?"

"That _is _why yourgirlfriend enscorcelled Riordan isn't it? The night before the horde turned up? To perform the Joining so you could become a Grey Warden? So you could do her little blood magic ritual? Did you think we couldn't tell? Merran _knew _why Morrigan travelled with us_._ She wasn't stupid!"

As the first flash of guilt subsided quickly, to be replaced by anger, Jowan's own ice-blue eyes flashed defiantly. "I wanted Merran to live!" he spat.

"I wanted her to live too!" Alistair bellowed at him abruptly. "But I wasn't willing to throw away everything she'd achieved to do it!" Alistair seized Jowan by the shirt. "Create another Old God so it could be tainted again by the Darkspawn? After all she'd done to end the Blight? To release the Archdemon from forced service to the Horde?" Alistair shook his head, loosening his hands on the mage, shoving the other man roughly away. "You're the bloody idiot, Jowan," Alistair stated plainly. "You talk about all this being about Merran, but it's not really. If you were her friend, _truly_ her friend, you would have kept your promise to her about blood magic."

"It wasn't…" Jowan began then stopped. "It really is useless talking to you. A new Blight didn't start all over again because a living being with the soul of an Old God was created."

"It's just a matter of time," Alistair told him grimly. "A new Blight might not have begun straight away – but what happens when the child is old enough for the Darkspawn to enslave and control? Leashing an old god – in the form of a dragon – is bad enough. Doing it to a _child_? How do you think Merran would have felt about that?"

"I don't…"

"You don't know?" Alistair completed the other man's sentence in mocking tones. "You didn't think, did you? You went behind Merran's back and performed the Joining, knowing how she felt about it. You performed a ritual with the pretence of preserving a friend when really it was about impressing your girlfriend…"

"It wasn't like that!" Jowan protested angrily. "You're not the only one in Ferelden who cared about Merran. You might have thought that you were the only one in this country who had a right to care, but…"

"So you agreed to a little witchy ritual to keep everyone alive, so that Merran could live a few more days to suffer some more, is that it?" Alistair held up the rose, waving it accusingly in front of Jowan's indignant face. "How much do you think she would be suffering now, _if _she were alive? Succumbing to the Taint, wherever she is? And if she still _is _alive – do you think she appreciates it? Do you think she's enjoying being alive, turning into a ghoul or a darkspawn herself? You're a _fool,_ Jowan – Merran trusting you had always been a bad idea and my thinking you could ever redeem yourself was an even worse one."

As he spoke, a petal detached itself and floated gently between the two arguing Wardens. While they watched, the rose darkened and shrivelled; a couple more petals falling away. Jowan's expression turned into one of horror, seeing the once fresh-looking rose succumb to age and decay in front of his eyes.

Skin ghost pale, Alistair cupped his hand around the remains of the rose and carefully returned it to its wrappings, along with the desiccated, blackened petals.

Alistair leant both hands against the window sill, head tucked low between his shoulders, his expression no longer visible. After a short time, his voice emerged, small and strained. "I guess that answers your question, doesn't it?"

Taking another step backwards, so that his shoulders brushed the stone of the walls, Alistair headed towards the door. He paused at the doorway, shooting one last, hard look at Jowan. Then wordlessly, Alistair turned and left; the sound of Jowan's weeping echoing down the empty corridors after the departing Grey Warden.

-oo-

_Was that necessary?_

_I'm not sure…I'd actually forgotten about it, to be quite honest…_

_Quite the romantic, aren't you?_

_Well...You grow up in a tower…you hear stories. Next thing you know, you're meeting a prince and…_

_There was actually no white charger in your case._

_The Golem was…whitish…sort of…anyway, there wouldn't be – not if the prince was allergic to horses._

_Never heard a story about a prince who sneezed his way out of rescuing a damsel in distress._

_That's just so stereotypical! What if the damsel was not the one in distress? What if, for a change, it was the prince?_

_The damsel rescues the prince in distress? I don't think that idea is going to catch on…Somehow._

_We'll see…anyway – it's your move._

_Actually, I believe it is yours._

_Really? Are you sure? I'm pretty sure I just made my move! It can't be my turn again…Oh, you know, I really can't play these sorts of games. I'm useless – I always forget what the squares mean, how to move the pieces, never mind the rules…You do realise that I'm just going to end up playing to lose?_

_How unsporting of you…_

_Sloth Demons and Ladders – now there's a game I can get my teeth into. Old Chantry Maid is another, even if I always get Old Maid, no matter how I play._

_I have never heard of any of these games. Are you making them up?_

_Of course not…Um…Oh all right, how about a few rounds of 'Where's Mr Ferret'? No? Well okay, here's one you'll really _love._ We have to be standing up for it though._

_In the Fade we are standing, sitting, lying, all at the same time._

_Look, can you stop going all technical on me? Honestly, if I'd known an Old God was going to be _this _difficult…_

Sigh…_Very well. What must I do?_

_All right. Stand. Now. Stick your left – uh – claw out…okay, next put it back down to your side – now repeat that gesture and shake your talon about…nice shaking there! All right, now right claw same thing…and…what?_

_You're teaching me the Hokey Pokey…Is that what you're trying to do? The Hokey Pokey?_

…_Uh…yeah…? What; are Old Gods too godlike to do the Hokey Pokey? Too dignified? If it makes you feel better, we can do this to chamber music or something…_

_No…I think…that I have a better idea._

_You want to play 'Where's Mr Ferret?' after all? Great! Now where did I put my Fade Ferret puppet?_

_No, not _quite _what I had in mind…Of course, one word of warning…when you return, you won't be quite the same person. Think of it as…my gift to you._

_Your…what? Did you just say…? Returning? Oh ha, ha…this is your little joke, right? Right…? Because I could have sworn you just said…Um…Returning where…? Do you think you might be a bit more specific? Do I get a map? A short briefing? Hello…? Helloooo! _"Urthemiel? This is my…"

Sharp pain and the throbbing beat of her heart in her ears…but she had no ears. She wasn't _supposed_ to have ears, owing to the fact that she no longer – actually – had a body…But she could feel again as though she _had _a body and she wished she couldn't – and didn't.

She opened her eyes – then opened them a second time, feeling that slightly jolty sensation one felt when severing the connection to the Fade. It was dark – and warm and cold at the same time…and there was a smell that was all too familiar. An ominous hooting noise, like a herd of rabid, mating nugs drunk on too much apple cider echoed in the distance. Breathing hard Merran extended her hand, muttering the spell for fire…nothing.

Tamping down panic before it sent her into spasms of terrified screaming and ripping out of hair, Merran forced herself to _think._ After a while her eyes began to adjust. There was barely enough light to see where she was…it was not the Fade…It was worse; so very, very, _very _much worse.

Dropping to the ground, she curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her head protectively, muttering words that she hoped would eventually turn into magic ones by sheer force of repetitiveness.

"_Nug poop. Nug poop. Nug poop. Nug poop. Nug poop. Nug poop. Nug poop!"_

This was her reward for rescuing an Old God from the shackles of the Darkspawn?

"_NUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGG…POOOOOOOOOOPPPPP!"_

-oo-


End file.
